Roses in December
by BlackIceWitch
Summary: S5/6. They saved the world and all it had cost him was everyone he'd loved. In the nightmare-filled hours of the long nights, Dean sits in a suburban lounge room in Cicero and drinks to keep the pain away, memories coming back of better times, of older times, of those he loved and lost. No slash, no spoilers past S5.
1. Chapter 1 The Reflection of Whiskey

**Roses in December**

* * *

_God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December._

_~ J. M. Barrie_

* * *

**Chapter 1 The Reflection of Whiskey**

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana 2010**_

Dean Winchester sat alone in the small living room, a single lamp casting a pool of light from an occasional table on the other side, leaving the rest in varying shades of darkness.

He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, heavy muscles gained from a lifetime of use, never seeing the shiny, torturous-looking equipment of a gym. The closest he'd ever gotten to working out was in the boxing gyms, filled with hard-faced men, sour-sweat smell, canvas ring and leather bags hanging from the ceiling, his hands taped as his father had taught him where to hit and how to hit and how to hit hard with his weight behind the blow. Short dark hair showed blondish highlights in the stray edges of light from the lamp as he hunched in the armchair. The hand that held the half-full glass of whiskey was battered, knuckles broken and lumpy, a couple of fingers not quite straight, old, white scars and calluses making an interesting landscape over the skin. A labourer's hand, maybe, or a fighter's.

He stared at the bottle on the table absently, already feeling the soothing amnesia it contained, coursing through his system as the whiskey filled his stomach. Grief backed away reluctantly, the nightmarish images that had woken him and brought him downstairs flickered and faded. _Medicinal_, he thought, looking at the bottle. _Just fucking medicinal_.

He leaned back in the chair, swallowing another mouthful, feeling it rush down his throat and warm his belly, and finally he could close his eyes without terror, watching random coloured patterns against the black of the inside of his eyelids, feeling a detached kind of peace, the only kind he could get now, artificial but still a relief.

2010 had been a cluster-fuck of a year. But he thought that for bad years, 2008 was still in the lead by a nose. And to be honest, '06 and '07 had been pretty fucking horrible too. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, fingers brushing over skin that was almost clean shaven, almost all the time now. He'd liked the previous century better.

"_You know you're a hunter when you can't remember a single goddamned good year, and every year keeps getting worse and worse!" Ellen had raised her glass and swayed as she sat in the chair, tossing back the contents to the sound of rueful laughter around her._ The roadhouse. Bobby and Ash, Ellen and Jo and Sam and him, getting drunk on New Year's eve and all of 'em, he thought, wishing they were in any other line of business, their eyes haunted behind the smiles.

And here he was, sitting in Lisa's clean and tidy living room, drinking whiskey bought with money honestly earned, no blood or dirt under his fingernails, no stink of gun-oil or solvent rising invisibly from his clothes. Out of the life. In suburbia with a truck full of construction tools, a pretty woman sleeping upstairs in the bed they shared, a kid in the next room, and nothing to worry about except the leak in the corner of the roof that would get worse with the next big snowfall.

No friends.

No purpose.

No meaning.

No brother.

He shifted away from those thoughts, a well-practised double-clutch through the gears back to neutral territory. The nights were too long here, no matter how tired he was when he got into that shared bed, he would be up three or four hours later, awake, panting, sweating, stomach knotting itself and he would end up down here, sitting and drinking and seeing out the rest of the dark hours in the silence of the house and the street and his own restless mind.

_You got what you asked for, Dean. No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same._

Cas' words echoed in his head. _I didn't ask for this, _he thought bitterly_. I didn't ask for being left with nothing. Having it all taken away_. Fucked if he'd be saving the world the next time it needed it when he all got for his blood and pain was a life he couldn't feel and everyone he loved gone.

_I mean it, Dean. What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?_

Neither. Peace was sucking everything he was proud of, everything that meant anything to him, out of him. The normal life, the life he'd wanted and dreamed of and craved was taking who he was and burying it and he could feel that loss every day and every night. How long would it be before he stopped being vigilant about the protection that surrounded this house? How long would it take before he started to watch a little more TV, drink a little more each night, stop thinking, stop being Dean Winchester and start to become someone else, something else?

And freedom … freedom was a lie. He wasn't free to do anything. He was trapped like a bug in honey, struggling against losing himself, struggling against his grief, struggling against the absolute certainty that Sam was being ripped to shreds in the depths of Hell and there wasn't one fucking thing he could do about it.

He glanced at the stairs. The woman sleeping upstairs was a good woman. She was caring and decent and she loved him, god knew why. He knew that. But even when he wanted to, he couldn't turn the feelings he had for her into anything more. He couldn't even tell her who he was, right down inside, where he lived. He could be with her, and protect them, and try to look after them but that was all. And he knew it wasn't enough. Not enough to make this life bearable.

He finished the whiskey and poured more into his glass, picking it up and leaning back.

His father had done that, he thought. Had screwed him and Sam up so much that a normal life was completely out of reach, impossible, unattainable. Had pounded into them the reality of the underside of the world so deeply, so inextricably, that he couldn't relax, couldn't just forget about it.

_He protected you_, a voice whispered in his mind, _protected you and trained you to protect others_.

And what had that gotten him? A lifetime of pain and no hope for anything else?

_What else is there?_

He couldn't quite make out whose voice that was, whispering against his thoughts, but he was starting to get irritated by it.

_You were a hero, Dean; you risked your life so that other people could live. You fought the monsters and the angels and the demons and the ghosts that linger on, angry and impotent, so that people can live normal lives. Why did you ever think that kind of life would let you be normal? Normal is unaware, ignorant, naïve. You were a hunter in the dark and you were never unaware of the dangers._

No. He never was. He tried to pretend he could live without it, but he couldn't. Zachariah had been right about that.

_It wasn't all bad. The way you felt about yourself, the things that you could do, the things that you did do … those are the things that are slipping away now, here in the peace of a little house, a little street, a little town. Those are things that got you up in the morning and kept you going through the watches of the night._

He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, relishing the burn down his throat. Maybe it hadn't been all bad. Maybe this was worse, feeling safe but useless. Feeling like a bit actor in a bad play, not knowing his lines or where he was supposed to be standing, ignored mostly by the people around who did know their place in a life of normality, who looked into his eyes and saw his confusion and shook their heads at him.

_Don't you remember the djinn's poison dream, Dean? Don't you remember who you were in that dream? Some guy who worked at a garage, some guy who didn't know his brother, didn't even get on with him? Some guy who gambled and drank and stole and lied? You didn't have a purpose, growing up in that normal life. You didn't have a channel for the things that were buried deep inside, the things that you can do and be. You were the smart kid who didn't see the point in exerting yourself because it all came too easy._

He frowned, shifting restlessly in the chair. Had that been true?

_Of course it was true, the djinn looked inside of you and took what it found there, it didn't make up the details – you did. And you knew._

He'd wanted to stay there, god, he'd wanted so much to stay there with his family and safety and yet even there, he'd seen the girl. Seen the djinn. Hunted it down. And the man who'd done those things hadn't been the man who'd grown up in that life.

_No._

Wasn't he allowed to have peace? Was that God's plan for him, to be a drifter, to have no home, no one to hold him, no one to care if he died alone?

_There's peace … and there's peace. There's contentment and satisfaction in doing what you were born to do. There's acceptance and love in understanding yourself, in finding someone who can share that understanding. There's strength in being yourself, not lying, not pretending, not standing in the middle of a crowd and thinking that you might be able to eventually blend in._

He closed his eyes. He'd lost those things. Lost them all for good in the last six months. He couldn't see a way forward and he couldn't find a way back. Ahead lay years of … this. Out of place, out of his depth, but not alone. If he walked away from it …

He shook his head impatiently. He'd promised his brother. Promised him to find normality and a family and a life that he'd said over and over that he wanted. He wasn't walking away from that promise. It was the only thing left he could do for Sam, was to keep that promise.

_Do you remember playing cards with Jim, in the summer time when the big storms rumbled and the lightning flickered on the very edge of the horizon? Do you remember frozen-cold mornings in the woods, following Bobby soundlessly over the stiff, white grass, reading every sign of every living thing that had passed that way before you? Do you remember the howl of the werewolf and the biting acrid smell of smoke, racing down a mountainside, outrunning the fire and the monster? Do you remember a beautiful fall morning, in the narrow wood behind the old house that Caleb had been renting, the sky that piercing …_


	2. Chapter 2 Hunter's Moon

**Chapter 2 Hunter's Moon**

* * *

_**1997. Blue Earth, Minnesota**_

… piercing shade of blue that seems electric in its intensity. The trees were fully gowned in red and scarlet, gold and caramel and umber and sienna, the ground covered in dry, crackling leaves, piled in drifts against the trunks, against the low bushes and in amongst the bracken fern.

Dean lay on his stomach, the heavy rifle's scope an inch from his eye, Caleb lying beside him, both of them looking at the barn in the distance.

"Can you feel a breeze?" Caleb asked him, his voice quiet.

"Yeah, south-east," he breathed, adjusting the scope slightly. "Not much, a couple of knots, maybe."

"It'll be fresher out in the fields."

Dean nodded fractionally, making another slight adjustment to counteract the stronger airflow over the open ground. In the scope, the target was clear, a round painted circle, about the size of a trash can lid, the paint bright red against the weathered silver boards. Behind the barn wall, they'd stacked bales of straw and sandbags to absorb the impact and prevent over-penetration. The barn was on Jim's place, well away from the house and church. Even a miss wouldn't hit anyone.

Caleb's glance shifted to the trigger guard, where Dean's finger rested lightly.

"Whenever you're ready," he said softly.

Dean's finger lifted from the guard and slipped in over the trigger, muscles tightening infinitesimally against the smooth metal. _Slow is fast. Slow is fast. Slow is fast_. Caleb's mantra ticked in his mind, as he shut out his awareness of everything but the target in the scope, the slow, steady pull against the trigger, the shifting air currents over the range.

The gun wasn't loud, although it scared the squirrels and birds around them who'd just begun to get used to their presence there. Caleb lifted the field glasses and looked through them, mouth stretching into a grin as he saw the hole in bottom left quadrant of the target.

Dean looked through the scope, seeing the same hole, a frown drawing his brows together as he tried to calculate where he'd been off, what had affected that six inch shift from the centre to the lower left.

"Not bad," Caleb looked at him, mouth quirking on one side at the frown.

"Couldn't have been the wind," Dean muttered, staring through the scope.

"No, you didn't give it quite enough lift and a little too much against the force of the wind." The older man rolled onto his back, staring up through the branches of the canopy above him. "That only takes a bit more practice, Dean. You have a feel for this, it'll come."

Dean worked the bolt, catching the empty cartridge as it flew out and putting it into his pocket, loading another round into the chamber and locking it down. He put his eye back to the scope, and adjusted the gun again. Caleb rolled onto his stomach, lifting the glasses as he rested on his elbows, watching the red circle.

"Slow is fast. Slow is fast. Slow is fast," Dean murmured under his breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The flat retort cracked through the woods and fields and Caleb saw the bullet hit, punching through the cardboard of the target, through the timber board behind it, higher and closer to the centre this time, within four inches.

He let the glasses fall, watching the boy beside him. He'd known John's boys a couple of years now, on and off, whenever John passed through, or dropped them off with Jim to handle another hunt. Caleb had been surprised by them, at first, unable to see their focussed, often taciturn father in either. Gradually though, he'd begun to see it, in Dean's razor sharp concentration, his refusal to accept that there was anything he couldn't do perfectly – anything to do with hunting, that was. And in Sam's one-track mind, that gnawed and worried and clung to problems like a bloodhound, forehead wrinkled up as he fought for answers. They'd grown up in a life he couldn't really imagine, although he was in it now, salt and iron and circles of protection and spells … all these things, that had taken him time to get his head around, had been just another part of their upbringing, just another set of skills to learn, knowledge to understand, along with how to read and write, how to tie their shoelaces and make their own lunches. He closed his eyes briefly, wondering at what they would be as men with that past. Dean was almost a man, he considered, though to watch him roughhouse with his younger brother, you could be forgiven for thinking that there were only a couple of years between them.

Dean stared through the scope, letting his breath out in a gusty exhale. He glanced sideways at Caleb.

"One more."

It wasn't a request and Caleb grinned, nodding. "Sure. Then we have to pack it up. We'll try somewhere different tomorrow."

He watched as Dean went through the process again, every step meticulously followed, understanding the need to deeply embed that process, those steps, into his memories, the memories of his brain and the memories of his fingers, of his arms, his skin and muscle.

Lifting the glasses again, he looked at the target, watching Dean from the corner of his eye.

This time the boy was perfectly still, perfectly silent. Caleb couldn't hear him breathing but he saw the boy's back rise and fall slowly, evenly as he deliberately shed tension, and focussed on the distant target.

As Dean's finger closed around the trigger, he could feel the light wind strengthen slightly, intruding deeper into the trees, bending the grass more firmly across the fields. He waited, relaxed, for the change to die away or steady. When it steadied, he made the minute adjustments to the scope and rifle again, finger off the trigger and resting against the guard, every movement slow and considered, taking into account the new velocity and direction, the micro-changes to the environment, the shift in the sun's position and the slight increase in the warmth of the day.

Caleb's mouth lifted slightly as he watched the boy's profile, his concentration deep but without any worry. His finger slipped back onto the trigger and drew back slowly, smoothly, past the point of resistance.

Through the binoculars, Caleb saw the bullet strike the centre of the painted circle, leaving a small black hole. He let the glasses drop and looked over at Dean, seeing the lift of his cheek, as he checked through the scope.

"Bullseye."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice low and even, matter-of-fact. Caleb's grin widened. Kid had all the hallmarks of a good shooter, right down to the prosaic acceptance of praise.

"Alright. Get it packed up, your dad called, he's on his way back, and he said something about another job."

Dean started to pack away the gun, breaking it down carefully and inserting the pieces into the hollow forms in the solid foam packing of Caleb's metal case. He loved the precision of shooting, the skills he was slowly building, and the way on that last shot, he'd run with his instinct, feeling the wind, feeling the space between himself and barn, and making the adjustments to the trajectory he needed and seeing it work, perfectly.

He'd kept the wild elation at the shot inside for Caleb. Caleb was a shooter and he never showed excitement about anything he did, considering it a part of the job, a part of his skills and not a cause for celebration when he made a particularly difficult target. But he'd be telling his brother about it, he thought gleefully.

* * *

The house was a two storey timber frame, weatherboard siding in need of a sand back and more paint. It was old and sprawling and comfortable, and Dean thought of it as their home, whether they were here or somewhere on the road. Jim Murphy looked up as they trudged up the path. On the lawn, Sam let the rake fall, leaving the piles of leaves as he paced alongside his brother asking questions.

"How'd he do?" Jim looked at Caleb, sliding a quick glance at Dean's composed face.

"Not bad. Make a shooter," Caleb allowed, carrying the case into the house.

Jim raised an eyebrow at the young man. "You must have impressed him."

Dean let a tiny smile show a hint of teeth as he nodded, following Caleb inside with the heavy gear bag. Sam stood on the porch, watching them go then turned to Jim, mouth opening.

"No. I can still see piles out there, Sam. You can talk to your brother when they're all around back next to the incinerator," Jim said, cutting off the incipient request before it could be made. He watched the boy's shoulder slump as he turned and stomped down the stairs, pulling out a bag from his back pocket and pouncing on the nearest pile, shoving the leaves inside.

Jim watched him for a moment, hiding a smile at the stiff and rebellious outline of the kid's shoulders as he worked, then got up and walked inside.

The kitchen table had, as usual, been commandeered for cleaning the guns, and he leaned against the doorway, watching Dean and Caleb unpack their weapons and lay them out, breaking them down methodically. The smell of oil and solvent filled the air, overwhelming the soft, lingering scent of the bread he'd baked that morning. Dean's fingers were as nimble and experienced as Caleb's, Jim noticed with only a small spurt of surprise. Boy'd been doing this in one form or another since he'd been in short pants, and he worked fast, but thoroughly, knowing as well as the more experienced men that his life depended on the weapons on the table, a misfire or a dirty barrel would kill him against the creatures they hunted.

Caleb looked up and winked at him. "Got a beer for us, padre? Thirsty work out there in the heat."

Jim snorted softly. "Heat? You boys had the best day we've had for months today."

He walked to the fridge and pulled out three beers, setting two on the table near them and carrying the third to the end of the table where he pulled out a chair and sat down.

"So do I get the scoop, or not?" He looked at Caleb with a lifted brow.

"Three shots, all on target. Improved each time, last one bull," Caleb said shortly, pulling out the chair beside him and levering the top off the bottle with the edge of his knife. "Last shot was harder than the first, too. Wind picked up."

Jim whistled softly, eyes crinkling up slightly as he watched a faint flush of colour rising up Dean's neck.

"Might knock you off your perch one day, Caleb," he said, looking back to him. Caleb glanced at Dean and back to Jim, his eyes filled with amusement.

"Might do that," Caleb agreed. "Won't complain about it."

Dean cleared his throat and picked up his beer, levering the top off against the edge of the table. "No big deal."

Jim burst out laughing and Caleb grinned, as the boy looked from one to the other, green eyes widening.

"Very big deal, Dean. Good job," Jim nodded and lifted his bottle slightly. "Your dad'll be pleased to hear about it."

Dean ducked his head and set down his beer, his attention focussed on the long barrel. Caleb looked at Jim, an eyebrow barely rising and Jim shook his head. The relationship between father and son was complicated and difficult to explain, made more so Dean's invariable discomfort with any discussion of it. He'd tell Caleb later.

"What's next?" he asked.

Caleb scratched his head, thinking about it. "Barn's good for starting but we need somewhere where the wind can really affect the shot, somewhere high and open, I think. Half the time it's not the distance, it's the conditions that fuck you over, so some time spent on that would be worthwhile."

Jim nodded. "There's the quarry? Out behind Bateman's farm."

Caleb looked at him consideringly. "Anyone around there?"

"No, and if you're on the rim, you're safe anyway," Jim said slowly, thinking about the place. "Highest point around here, and it's flat on the top, shallow in the centre. About a half mile across the widest point."

"Sounds fine."

"I guess I'll get dinner started, if you two want to finish up here and get this crap off my table," he said, finishing his beer and getting up.

Dean looked up at him, reassembling the rifle in his hands. "When did Dad say he'd be back?"

"About eight, he thought," Jim said over his shoulder, going to the sink. "He was talking about a job."

* * *

Jim and Caleb carried their coffees out to the porch as the boys cleared the table and stacked them on the sink, bickering softly with each other over who would wash and who would dry.

"Is he steady enough to do this in the field?" Jim asked Caleb, glancing at his watch as he settled into the chair.

"Yeah, he understands what it means," Caleb replied softly. "That's usually the hardest thing to get across – what it means to get it right."

Jim nodded. That wouldn't have been a problem for Dean – getting it right, understanding why, that he'd learned before he'd started school.

"So what was that thing earlier, Jim?" Caleb looked across at the older man curiously. "I thought the kid would be dancing on the table."

Jim sighed gently. "Not sure I can explain it you, really. Dean … he lives for John's recognition, for his praise. But he finds it hard to accept."

"Why?"

"Got me," Jim said, letting out his breath in a deep exhale. "I don't know what it is between them, the life, their history, the way John is, driven all the time … somewhere along the line Dean went from being his son, to being his second-in-command, and it … changed things. Made it harder."

"Is that why he works so hard, to get it right? Why he won't quit until he does?"

"Well, it's a part of it," Jim said. "I've known Dean since he was about four, and he's always had that in him, that compulsion, that responsibility."

"And Sam? Is he getting that way too?" Caleb glanced through the open door down the hall.

Jim snorted. "Sam … no, Sammy's a whole different ballgame. Sam's a lot like John and neither of them see it. Sam won't take anybody's word on anything, he has to figure it out for himself. John's handling him the wrong way too, of course. It's going to bite him badly when Sam gets older."

Caleb leaned back in the chair, looking out over the dark fields, the black woods barely visible against the night sky. He'd never met kids like the boys. Not that he'd met that many kids at all, but he'd never even come across other kids like those two. They were already soldiers, he thought, already prepared to fight, knew how to fight. There was nothing left of the child he'd been in Dean. And Sam was losing the last pieces of his innocence every day.

"Why didn't he stop, settle down somewhere, raise them in a stable environment?" he asked finally, looking over at Jim.

"Not really my story to tell, Caleb," Jim said uncomfortably. "He didn't have a choice."

"Everyone's got a choice, padre," Caleb said, his voice soft.

"No. Not everyone. Or if there is a choice, it's Hobson's choice. The devil or the deep blue sea," he said, cradling his cup between both hands as he turned to look at Caleb. "He lost Mary. And nothing stopped. He wasn't left alone to grieve and get on with life, he's been harried and hunted across the country, Caleb. He's done what he thought was best, was safest … for them." He jerked his head toward the door. "And what's coming for him is getting closer."

* * *

The headlights flickered across the ceiling as the car pulled in at the front of the house. In the living room, Jim and Caleb, Dean and Sam sat around the card table, the boys getting up immediately as the engine died away, walking out to meet their father.

John Winchester came into the house and turned into the living room, flanked by his eldest son and followed by his youngest. His face was grimy and a long cut, dried and crusted, over ran down from the corner of his eye to just short of his jaw, the end hidden in the week's growth that covered the lower half of his face, his clothes filthy and torn.

"You look like you had fun," Jim commented, running his gaze over the man. John snorted and stopped at the doorway.

"More than I could tell you," he replied, his tone sour. "I need to clean up."

"No argument," Jim agreed. "Anything that needs more attention?"

John shook his head. "Just cuts and scrapes." He looked at Caleb. "Dean tells me you're teaching him to use the M40?"

Caleb glanced from John to Dean and back. "Sure have."

"He any good?"

"Gonna make a shooter," Caleb confirmed. "Nice, steady hands."

"Good." He turned around, grinning down at his son who was hovering behind him. "We can always use a good marksman."

Caleb saw Dean duck his head, stepping back as John walked past him to the stairs. Kid didn't know what to do with himself, he thought.

"Come on, you two, ante up," he said, throwing a couple of chips into the centre of the table. "We're not done whipping your butts yet."

* * *

It was almost midnight when John packed the boys off to bed and settled himself at one end of Jim's comfortable sofa, a glass of whiskey held in one hand. Caleb sat at the other end, drinking a beer. Jim sat in the big leather-upholstered armchair to the left of the sofa.

"Cincinnati," John said, looking at Jim. "Werewolves."

"Wolves? Plural?" Jim's eyebrows shot up in surprise. John nodded.

"There are three hunting together, from what I've been able to find out," he said, glancing at Caleb.

"When the next full moon?" Caleb asked, brow furrowing as he tried to remember.

"Five days' time." John sipped his whiskey, looking at the small fire that burned cheerfully on the hearth. "It'll take all of us."

"What about Sam?" Jim frowned, leaning forward in the chair.

"Not Sam. But he'll have to come with us, stay in the motel," John agreed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Jim and I'll do the ground work, you and Dean can take the high road, keep us covered."

Caleb looked at Jim. "He hasn't had that much practice, John."

"Well, you've got three days to get him up to speed, because that's when we're leaving."

"You don't think that's a lot of pressure for a –"

"No. I don't," John's eyelids dropped slightly, becoming hooded as he looked at his friend. "He's a man, Jim. He can handle it."

Jim looked away. Dean was close to being a man, but he wasn't. Not yet. There was still a lot of kid in him, an overburdened kid who didn't know what he was doing when his father wasn't around to give the orders.

"Will he be ready?" John looked at Caleb.

Caleb shrugged. "He'll be competent."

"That's enough."

* * *

The sun was shining but a cold air mass had come down from the north and the air was frigid, a strong, biting wind whistling across the loose rocks, and scouring the flat area at the top of the quarry.

Dean lay prone on the gravel, looking through the scope at the target, six hundred yards away. Beside him, Caleb watched the target through the glasses. The wind was steady, not a lot of variation to take into consideration for the shot, which still had a reasonable level of difficulty. So far, Dean had made the edge of the target once, the other two shots missing. Caleb could feel the tension rising in the boy. John was lying a few feet away, glasses fixed on the target as well, no doubt the reason for Dean's lack of concentration and rising worry.

"Take it easy. Slow is fast, Dean, there's no rush, you're not being graded, make sure of the shot before you pull the trigger," Caleb murmured to him, his voice low enough to reach only Dean's ears.

The flat crack echoed in the lop-sided bowl below them, and he saw Dean's shoulders tense up as he looked through the scope and saw the black hole at the edge of the red painted disc.

Dean pulled in a deep breath, trying to loosen the knots in his back and neck and shoulders. He leaned his forehead against the butt of the rifle, eyes closed. "I don't know what's going wrong, Caleb," he admitted, very softly.

Caleb did, but a part of any training in the field was the addition of stressors. Being able to make the shot when everything was calm and peaceful wasn't good enough. Being able to do it under pressure, under fire, under attack, that was what counted. So he didn't tell John to leave or move further away. He looked at Dean.

"You're paying attention to everything but what you need to, Dean. Let it go. Focus on the target. The target is the only thing that's important here today. I'm not here. Your dad isn't here. Just the target."

"I can't …," Dean's whisper was barely audible, and Caleb saw the slight tremor in his shoulders.

"Yeah, you can. You have. You will." He shifted his weight to his right arm, looking at him. "Breathe. And look at the target. And focus."

He watched Dean suck in another deep breath, close his eyes. He glanced over him to John. To his credit, John hadn't said or done anything, just watched the target through the binoculars.

_Slow is fast. Slow is fast. Slow is fast_. Dean looked down through the scope, staring at the red circle. He was aware of his father, lying silently to his left, aware that he must be thinking that Caleb had been too optimistic about his skills. Aware that if he couldn't hit the target here, in relative safety and comfort, he'd never be able to hit a monster in the dark and the middle of a hunt, where everything would be a distraction, everything would eat at his nerves. _Slow is fast. Slow is fast. Slow is fast_.

_Focus. The centre of the circle. Wind speed and direction were steady. Adjust for the velocity. Adjust for the tiny variations that were present in the rock bowl beneath them. Adjust for the range, six hundred yards, the furthest he'd tried yet. Slow is fast_. His finger slipped over the trigger. Everything disappeared except the circle. The centre of the circle. The small muscles of his finger tightened and he felt the trigger move back, felt it stop for a fraction of a second, the point of resistance then give smoothly as he kept the pressure steady.

Through the scope he saw the black hole appear, in the centre of the red circle. Beside him, he heard Caleb's exhale, felt his approval radiating out from him. He turned his head slightly, looking over at his father.

John's gaze was still on the target, and he lay unmoving. Dean felt a stab, deep inside, and ignored it, turning his head back and working the bolt, catching the cartridge and reloading. Beside him, Caleb looked at them, John's unmoving frame and his son's fierce concentration on what he was doing. He sighed inwardly.

The next two bullets went through the centre as well, and Caleb put his hand out to stop Dean from loading another.

"That's enough. We'll work on a closer target for the rest of the morning, come back here tomorrow."

Dean looked at him, flicking a glance back toward his father, then nodding.

* * *

Dean leaned against the wall in the dark hallway. He'd been about to enter the room beyond when he'd heard Jim's voice, the thread of anger in it and stopped outside the door.

"He's not ready," John's voice was implacable, anger just below the surface.

"He is, he just doesn't know it yet," Caleb said mildly, picking up his beer from the table. "He's got all of it, but it hasn't been tested under fire."

"John, we need both of them for three. We'll be slaughtered without that advantage." Jim pressed, leaning forward in the old chair, elbows on his knees as he stared at the younger man sitting across from him.

"And if he misses again? Under pressure? Hits you or me instead of the werewolf?" John's voice hardened, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling a coldness rising in his chest.

"He won't take the shot unless it's sure. We're not talking about moving targets here, John," Caleb said, gesturing vaguely. "He was only tense today because you were there."

"Yeah, exactly," John said acerbically. "And if he can screw up when it's just me around, what's he going to do when there's a real pressure to face?"

"You're the worst pressure he ever has to face, John," Jim said quietly.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Jim?"

"It means he cares more about what you think than anything else," Jim snapped back.

"I'm not risking it. Not on this hunt," John looked from Jim to Caleb. "He's not ready yet and a miss could be fatal to us in a lot of ways."

"If you're the one he's protecting, he'll kill himself before he misses, John," Jim barked, anger in his dark eyes as they met his friend's.

"You think that's going to help?"

Caleb sighed and got up, walking past John for the door.

"What the hell are you doing?" John snapped. He stopped and looked around.

"If this is all you two are going to do, I'm gonna get some shut-eye." He turned away and walked through the door, stopping abruptly in the hall when he came face to face with Dean.

For a long moment, they looked at each other. Caleb saw the pain in the boy's expression, the shine in his eyes, the plea that filled them, begging him silently not to say a word, to keep his secret, to walk away. He put his hand on Dean's shoulder, tightening his fingers for a moment then letting them drop away. He turned back to the living room door and stopped in the doorway.

"Listen to me, John, just for one minute." He pulled in a deep breath. "Today your son nailed a target in a high wind, over a variable temperature basin at six hundred yards. There aren't more than a couple of dozen men in the world who could have made that shot, and he did it three times, with you watching. So," he said, inhaling. "You get to a point where practice isn't the game anymore and you have to do it for real. He's ready."

Dean turned away, wiping furiously at his eyes as he slipped up the stairs. His heart was hammering against his ribs and he couldn't get a deep breath. Caleb's confidence in him, his father's lack of it, Jim's anger, his own deep fear that he might fail, might not be good enough, might fuck up and endanger them … all of it tangled in his mind and he couldn't fucking well breathe. He stopped at the landing and leaned against the wall, feeling the shallow panting breaths shaking him, unable to drag a deeper, slower one down. The creak of the stair near the bottom of the staircase propelled him along the hall to the bedroom he was sharing with his brother, and he managed to slip inside before Caleb came around the corner. He slid down the wall, drawing his legs up tight against his chest, resting his forehead on his knees and tried to slow it all down, slow it down and get one good, deep breath.

The knock on the door was soft, but unexpected and it made him jump, pushing back against the wall behind him to get to his feet. He opened it a crack and saw Caleb standing outside, looking at him.

"You're in," the older man said. Dean felt his stomach flutter.

"Get some sleep." Caleb turned from the door and headed down the hall. Closing the door, Dean stood in the darkness of the room, feeling his chest loosen, his throat start to open again.

* * *

_**I-74 E, Indiana**_

Dean drove steadily along the road, keeping precisely three car lengths behind the black truck ahead, the stereo silent, only the noise of the engine and the tyres speeding over the concrete filling the car. Sam was riding in the truck ahead, and Dean could see the stubborn hunch of his shoulders through the rear window.

His father had been in a sour mood in the morning, barking orders at them and irritable when things weren't done as quickly as he wanted. It was a side-effect of the night before, he knew. His father has gone back on a decision and he never dealt with that well. Add whatever his brother was going to do on the long drive south east and Dad could well be in a fury by the time they reached Cincinnati.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Jim's light blue truck barrelling steadily three car lengths behind him, Jim and Caleb sitting in the cab. He'd heard what Caleb had said, but had missed the argument that had followed, maybe just as well because he didn't know if he could've taken hearing any more of his father's arguments against him.

Chewing on the side of his lip, he tried to push those thoughts back and away from him. He was an adult, for god's sake, he should be able to take the criticism, spoken or implied, from another hunter. It wasn't personal. Just Dad trying to keep everyone safe on what would be a dangerous hunt.

It had _felt_ personal. He dragged in a deep breath. Three werewolves, hunting as a pack, something that wasn't unheard of, just as rare as hell. Tomorrow night the moon would be full, and they'd be out there, Caleb and him with the rifles if they could locate the territory today, Jim and his father on the ground, trying to flush them out. He felt the shiver ice its way down his neck and back and told himself that he could do it. He would have preferred to be on the ground, in a position to put himself between Jim or his father if anything came at them, but the fact was this kind of hunt was one of the few where long-distance shooting could make the difference. Werewolves could be killed immediately with silver to the heart. And if they could take them out, it would make Jim and his father's job much easier, much safer.

He wasn't sure exactly when he'd started to see his father's doubts in him. Maybe it hadn't been just one thing or one job, maybe it had been a cumulation of a few things. There'd been times when he'd fucked up severely, he knew that. Hell, there'd been times when his father had cocked up a job, not many but still. It was a part of the territory that came with the life. And all the hunters he knew could tell stories of the same things, errors and mistakes, tiredness or carelessness – although not too many lived to tell the tale if they'd been careless, monsters were kind of unforgiving about that. There was something more than just that in his father's eyes, though. Some deeper reservation that he couldn't bring himself to ask about. All of his life he'd been waiting to be his father's back up. To hunt with him and watch his back and keep him safe. And more and more, John was drawing away from them, away from him, as if he … as if he didn't trust him to do it properly.

He swallowed against his feelings as they came into the outskirts of the city, trying to clear his mind and focus on what they had to do for the next twenty four hours.

* * *

_**Cincinnati, Ohio **_

They circled the centre of the city, and headed south, around them the buildings getting larger, plainer, more utilitarian, separated by stretches of tarmac parking lots, skeletal metal machines filling them. The industrialised area of the city was a sprawling area to the south east, along the river bank where it turned to head south, the airport bounding one side, deserted lots and a large common to the north. John pulled into a small motel parking lot ahead of him, and Dean followed him, the black car bumping over the raised kerb, his breath hissing out as he heard the scrape of the concrete on the bottom of the car.

He got out, going to the trunk to get the gear, watching his father swing out of the truck cab and stalk across the lot to the office, rage simmering below the surface, visible in the stiffness of his gait. Looking back at the truck, he watched his brother get out, stretching after the twelve hour drive, long arms and legs going in different directions as he walked around to help Dean with the ordnance.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean hissed at him as he got close. "You had to pick this time to have a fight?"

Sam looked at him in surprise. "What? I didn't do anything. I didn't say anything the whole way here. He was already in a mood."

Dean's mouth thinned out and he handed his brother the black duffle bag, picking up the second one and closing the trunk. John walked back across the lot, tossing a key to Jim as he passed him and going to the room door. Dean and Sam followed him inside, carrying the bags.

The rooms were big, a queen bed in the main room, another bedroom and bathroom, reasonable kitchen and eating facilities. Dumping the gear bags on the floor, they carried their own stuff through to the separate bedroom and dumped the bags on the ends of the single beds.

Sam unzipped his bag, pulling out books and clothes randomly until he found the book he was looking for and flopping back onto the bed, opening and plunging without pause into reading. Dean looked at him for a moment then went back out to the main room, picking up black bag and unzipping it, taking out the hand guns and the case of silver bullets and starting to strip the magazines of the regular rounds, replacing them with the silver. He felt his father's gaze on him from time to time but kept his fixed on what he was doing.

"Dean."

He looked up, fingers automatically pushing the cartridges into the magazine, one after the other, his heart sinking slightly as he saw his father's expression.

John's gaze cut around the room, clearly uncomfortable. Dean waited, the muted click of the bullets going into the magazine the only sound.

"Uh, you'll be with Caleb," John got out finally, his voice slightly gruff, his gaze pinned to the floor. "You should probably go and help him with the long-range rifles."

He nodded, finishing the magazine and slamming it back into the gun, loading a round into the chamber and thumbing on the safety before he replaced it in the bag. He picked up his jacket and shrugged it on and went to the door.

"Dean," John said softly from behind him. He stopped and turned, licking his lips nervously as he watched his father struggle with whatever it was he wanted to say.

_Don't. Don't say anything_, he thought desperately. It hurt as much to hear his Dad trying to reassure him, or telling him he'd done well, as it did to hear the anger and doubt. He couldn't deal with any emotion from his father, needing the calm, unambiguous orders, the matter-of-fact tone of a briefing, the staccato bark of a command.

"Uh … we'll go and check out the territory while the sun's still up. They've been using this whole area, so you and Caleb can check out the southern end, Jim and Sam and I will be working the northern."

"Right," Dean said, relief tingeing his voice as he turned back to the door. "I'll let them know."

"Good."

* * *

Early Sunday afternoon looked like the end of the world, Dean thought, as he and Caleb moved through the silent, empty spaces between the big, prefabricated buildings. Without the usual bustle of people and machines and noise through the industrialised area, it seemed abandoned, the wind skirling dust and bits of rubbish across the flat concrete aprons, and around the towering stacks of shipping containers, whistling eerily through the gantries and the metal frames of the loading cranes, all still and watchful, bones against a blameless blue sky.

They'd found the scat first, piled beside a dumpster on the western side of the building closest to the river. It did, at least, prove his father's assertion that they gathered here, perhaps brought their kills here or chased them here. There were no fences around the company properties, and with three, it wouldn't be hard to drive a terrified victim into the empty grounds, far from help or light or any means of escape.

Caleb glanced up at the rooflines of the buildings around them when they saw the faded blood stains. The company had been reporting wild animal kills here for three months. The police report stated it was a pack, perhaps feral dogs, or possibly something escaped from a private zoo. The reports were haphazard. Nothing had been left of the five victims already taken, except for some stringy tendon and pieces of clothing. All the victims had been homeless, sleeping rough in the park to the north through the summer months, retreating to the tunnels and underpasses closer to the city as the weather got colder. No missing persons reports had been filed. Not that verification could have been made, since not even a bone had turned up from the kills.

It was why no hunter had noticed the attacks for so long, Dean thought. Werewolves were usually obvious. They took the heart and left most of the rest of the body. These were thorough. Perhaps because one victim had to feed three? They needed the heart, he knew. How were they divvying that up?

He followed Caleb's gaze up to the roofs of the buildings, eyes narrowing as he calculated distance and visibility from those heights.

"Look like the kill ground to you?" Caleb looked at him. Dean nodded. The blood stains were wide over the concrete, not dragged but several different bodies, he thought. He looked around the empty, silent buildings surrounding them. All of them were owned by the same company, import and export business.

"Call your dad and then we'll have a look from the top of that one," Caleb said, lifting his hand to shade his eyes as he turned back to the building behind them.

Dean pulled out his phone, hitting the speed dial and waiting. The signal was weak, broken up and distorted by the amount of metal surrounding them, partially blocked from the nearest towers by the landscape that rose and fell between them.

"We've got a kill zone here," he said as his father answered the phone. He listened for a moment, face screwing up as he tried to make sense of the words in between the hiss and crackle on the line. "Yeah, see you in ten."

"Reception isn't worth squat here," he remarked to Caleb, putting the phone back in his pocket.

"Might be better up there," Caleb said, walking toward the building. "I should have got Charlie to get me some gear."

Dean raised an eyebrow. He'd heard a little of the mysterious Charlie, a friend of Caleb's still in Uncle Sam's pay. There wasn't much Charlie couldn't get, of military equipment, sensitive defence information, satellite photos and other useful items. Caleb believed that the less info everyone had about everyone else, the better it was and he knew that he wouldn't get anything out of the ex-soldier now. But sometime he wanted to ask.

They found an exterior staircase on the other side, and started to climb, the wind plucking at them as they got higher and out of the lee of the buildings surrounding them. It was fresh, coming down the river, carrying the scents of the mudbanks and more faintly, diesel. He followed Caleb onto the near flat roof, looking for the line of fastenings to keep himself over the roof's frames. When they reached the edge, Caleb lay down, looking over the expanse of property in front of them.

The moon would rise in front of them, Dean considered, leaving too many deep black shadows in their field of view where anything could and would hide.

"Does this seem a bit … convenient to you?" Dean murmured as he looked down. The company's offices were on the other side of the open ground, a two story brick and concrete building.

"What do you mean?" Caleb scanned the area, the other roofs, looking for the best vantage points.

"Just … three werewolves. And they're all killing on the same grounds," Dean frowned; trying to make sense of the pieces he could feel, almost visible in his mind.

"Werewolves are territorial," Caleb remarked mildly.

"Yeah, but … this is like they knew about this place, knew it would be a good place to bring victims," Dean said slowly.

Caleb lowered the glasses and looked at him. "You think they work here, maybe?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "I don't know. I have a bad feeling."

The back of his neck was prickling slightly, his personal Spidey sense that something was wrong, something was amiss. He looked around the complex carefully, unable to see anything moving or out of place or … wrong particularly … nothing that could account for the unease that seemed to be growing.

Caleb lifted the glasses again, returning to his recce. "It's not going to be an easy job. We've all got a bad feeling, kid."

* * *

"Sam, Beretta loaded with silver?" John barked out the question to his youngest. Sam lifted the gun and nodded. After Colorado, he'd kept the firearm permanently loaded with silver.

"Keep the door locked, and keep it quiet," John said, turning away.

"Yessir."

"Dean, got all your gear?"

"Yessir," Dean's response was automatic. He and Caleb would take Jim's truck. Dad and Jim would ride in the black truck. It was an hour to moonrise, and from the post-mortem reports, most of the kills hadn't occurred until after midnight.

"Good," John looked around the room once more, then gestured to the door. "Get going."

* * *

The complex wasn't lit at night. The sky was clear and they could already see the loom of the moon to the east, even with the city's lights washing out half the northern sky.

Dean climbed up the narrow metal stairs that clung to the side of the building. Caleb was on the opposite side of the open lot, on the roof of the office building, the two rifles commanding a lethal cross-fire zone that his father and Jim just had to lead the werewolves into. The Winchester custom that was in the bag over his shoulder was almost equal to Caleb's M40, a little lighter and easier to manoeuvre but carrying the same calibre rounds in silver.

He pulled his coat closed and zipped it up as he came onto the flat surface, the wind cold and fresh here, still from the north, and damp from the river, crabbing slowly across the roof to the edge, kneeling down beside a wide ventilation shaft that protruded a couple of feet from the roof's surface. Beside the shaft's boxy shape, his outline would be hidden from the ground, looking, he hoped, like another shadow.

He didn't need light to put the rifle together or load it, his fingers knowing where each piece went, doing the job by rote. When he finished adjusting the legs, he lay down on the cold sheet metal and looked through the scope. Caleb had replaced both rifles' scopes with new ones, military light-enhancing scopes, a compromise between full night-vision which would be impossible to use once the moon rose, and the day-light scopes. Looking through it, he could see the other hunter, four hundred yards distant on the rooftop opposite, and the details of the empty space below, picking up Jim as he crouched in the shadows beside the concrete administration building. It wasn't very clear, in the darkness, but it was clear enough, he hoped, to be able to put a bullet through a man-sized target.

The narrow throat mike was pressing uncomfortably against his neck and he shifted it a little, pushing it further down and checking that the earpiece was secure. A werewolf's hearing was equal to or better than a dog's and they wouldn't be talking tonight, unless something happened. It was better to have them than not, though.

The moon lifted incrementally above the horizon, huge and golden through the haze and refraction of the city's pollution, the yellowish light painting the concrete and metal in shades of gold, giving the landscape a warmth that was entirely illusory.

Dean lifted his head slightly, looking around. It was too early, he knew. Too early for them to be moving, to be out hunting, all the reports had been consistent on that point, but he could feel something in the stillness and silence of the complex. His gaze travelled slowly around, not focussing on anything particularly as he tried to stretch out his awareness, to find what it was he could sense. The twitch of movement in the darkness of the window of the administration building caught his attention immediately and he stared at it, dropping his head and looking through the scope, adjusting the depth of field minutely.

Behind the half-closed blinds, something moved. He adjusted the focus again, straining to see past the glass, past the slats of the blind.

Eyes in the darkness. Pinpricks of light looking straight at him. He stared at them, his body locked in shock, then they disappeared and he could move again, lifting his head slightly. The click behind him was faint, barely a sound, but it was _wrong_ and his head snapped around to see the open jaws and widespread claws of the werewolf that crouched six feet from him.

The creature howled, the sound rising and falling and rising again, bouncing from the hard surfaces, rolling through the open spaces. Dean's hand scrabbled for his gun, the 9mm Colt automatic he'd been carrying for the last two years, ivory grips, stainless steel barrel, and he couldn't reach the fucking thing. He braced himself as he saw the monster tense, the seconds stretching out, noticing the elongated ears, the ropey saliva dripping from the deformed jaw, the long teeth, yellow in the golden light. Then he saw the hole appear in the chest, and time returned to normal, the werewolf thrown back by the impact of the heavy calibre bullet, the howl cut off abruptly. He watched as it began the transformation back to human, hearing the crack of the rifle's retort a second later.

_Get your fucking head back here_, he thought desperately, twisting back to look through the scope, his finger on the barrel and trigger guard. Caleb was on the roof alone. On the roof of the building in which he'd seen the other one. He dragged in a deep breath, forcing it into his lungs, forcing the tension away as the muscles reluctantly expanded.

They'd been here the whole time, watching them, seeing their preparations, knowing what the hunters would do after dark and they'd been waiting for them. The thoughts circled at the back of his mind, barely acknowledged as he searched the rooftop around the other shooter for any sign of movement.

"What the hell happened?" He heard his father's voice, soft and tinny in the earpiece, heard Caleb's response.

"Werewolf was on the roof behind Dean. It's down."

The man's voice was calm and dry, and Dean swallowed, a flash of admiration for Caleb's steel nerves there and gone in his mind.

The movement was slight but he was waiting for it, looking for it.

"Caleb, you've got one behind you, nine o'clock," he breathed, and his fingers were adjusting the scope and the sight, slipping over the trigger, everything else vanishing as he tracked the movement slowly with the barrel, his heart thumping slow and steady, concentration drawn down to a fine pinpoint.

He squeezed the trigger and saw the creature thrown back, brows drawing together as he watched it roll over and get up again, the cartridge expelled, new one in, bolt locked down. _Slow is fast. Slow is fast. Slow is fast_. Ticking in his head like a metronome. Matching his pulse. Matching his breathing, and his finger curled around the trigger and drew back smoothly, the crack of the rifle echoing around the complex, two howls sounding in the night, then only one.

"Good job," Caleb breathed, lowering the handgun back to his side, staring as the werewolf transformed back into a man, the entry hole small and neat but blood spreading out from his back.

Gunfire and muzzle flashes and a sudden scream from below.

Dean swung the barrel of the rifle downward, scanning fast across the lit and shadowed concrete. He saw Jim lying on the ground, his father beside him, gun levelled at a patch of shadow under the side of the building. Heard the deep rumbling growl. Felt the icy shiver pass up his spine.

The scope picked out the werewolf's outline despite the darkness it stood in. Range barely two hundred yards from here. Wind had dropped. He heard the flat crack of Caleb's shot, and saw the creature stagger out into the light, raising its head and roaring in defiance. Not a heart shot. Didn't get the heart.

It was turning fast and John moved away from Jim, stepping into open ground, blocking his shot, blocking his view. His finger waited on the trigger, watching the monster's muscles contract and bunch under the remnants of clothing, under the fine pelt that covered the chest and back and arms.

"Dad. Drop."

John dropped as the werewolf leapt, and the two impacts cancelled out each other and its forward movement. It hit the ground barely a foot from where it'd had taken off, crumpled up on the bright concrete, the light changing from gold to silver as the moon began to lift above the city.

Dean watched through the scope, looking for any movement, any sign that the creature wasn't dead. He saw the pelt fall away, skin gleaming black with the blood that spilled from the hole in its chest, pooling under the body from the hole in its back. He lifted his head as his father got slowly to his feet.

"Dean. Get the truck. Jim's hurt," his father said curtly as he turned to his friend.

He rolled to his knees, picking up the rifle and folding the legs against the barrel, picking up the bag and slinging both over his shoulder as he retraced his steps along the rooftop to the stairs.

* * *

"Damned fool," John spat out, shooting a glance at his eldest son. "Next time you have a feeling about something, tell someone. It's no good telling me after the fucking hunt."

"No, sir." Dean looked at the floor, feeling his ears burn. Sam was in the other bedroom, the door closed but hearing it all, he knew. Caleb sat at the small table, fiddling with his beer. Jim was on the edge of the bed, wounds clean and dressed, his arm in a sling across his chest.

"John, lighten up." The priest looked at his friend neutrally, and ignored John's answering scowl.

"Get packed up. I've got a lead on something down in Tennessee and we're heading out now," John said shortly, turning away. Dean nodded and walked to the bedroom, turning the knob and giving the door a slight push to warn his brother to stop leaning against it. He pushed again and the door opened, Sam moving away to the bed.

Picking up the duffle from the floor by the end of the bed, he looked around and picked up the few possessions he'd left out, shoving them in silently, not looking at Sam, not looking at anything but what he was doing.

"It's not fair, Dean," Sam came close, his voice a whisper.

He shrugged. Fair wasn't relevant. He hadn't said anything because he didn't know if he could trust his instinct, his feelings. His father had told him that he should. And from now on he would. It was that simple.

* * *

_**I-75 S, Kentucky**_

"I don't get it," Sam said peevishly, staring at his brother's profile as they sped south in the black car. "You took it out, you saved Caleb and him. Why didn't he say something?"

Dean's mouth compressed slightly as he stared out through the windshield, his eyes narrowed against the morning glare.

"Say what? I did my job," he said edgily. "What was there to say about that?"

"You saved his life!" Sam slammed his hand down on the seat for emphasis. "A little pat on the back wouldn't go astray."

Dean snorted. "I don't want congratulations for doing my job, dude."

Sam couldn't get over the business-as-usual attitude of their father, Dean knew. Couldn't get his head around the fact that to John, and to him, saying anything out of the ordinary for a job done properly would've been insulting, like it was a surprise or something. Caleb and Jim had made a big enough deal of the whole thing to last him for a while.

He felt surprisingly good about it, though. Relaxed. He'd made the shot under pressure, in the field, and that was more than enough. Another kill. Another notch. Another skill to add to the others. There was nothing else he wanted but to sit here, behind the wheel of his car, watching the miles disappear beneath her tyres, knowing that he could do the job that he'd wanted to do all his life. He felt … secure, he guessed.

Shooting a sideways glance at Sam, he let out his breath, seeing his brother still twisted in knots.

"Sam."

"What?"

"It's all good, man." He looked back at the road. "It's all good."

He heard Sam's disbelieving grunt from the passenger seat and grinned. Ahead the road to the next job was four hundred and eighty two miles, south through Kentucky and Tennessee, open, free and his own. He leaned over and rifled through the tapes in the box on the seat between them, flicking glances down to see the covers. He pulled out one and popped out the tape one-handed, slipping it into the stereo. Sam's groan was audible over the opening bars which widened his grin further.

To either side, farmland flashed by, the fields bare now, and the trees and windrows and hedges that delineated them bare too, stark branches against a pale grey sky, darker clumps of woods every now and again where a river ran through the …


	3. Chapter 3 Wrestling with Ghosts

**Chapter 3 Wrestling with Ghosts**

* * *

_**Denton, Michigan 2007**_

… dark woods, chuckling and swirling over and around the rotted logs that had fallen into it over the years. The banks were steep, and heavily overhung with saplings and shrubs and ferns, shutting out the afternoon light and making him wonder about what kind of wildlife or unnatural life for that matter the neighbourhood had.

"Are you sure you're reading that map right?" Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother, leaning up against the Impala's front panel, frowning over the offending map.

"It's a map, Dean," Sam said astringently. "I know how to read one."

"Touchy. So, where are we?"

"About two miles from the town," Sam's brow wrinkled up as he looked down at the map again. "What'd Ellie say this job was?"

"Haunting. You talked to her, dude," Dean answered, walking around the car. "She called you, not me."

Sam looked over the roof at his brother, wondering if there had been a slight note of irritation in Dean's voice. He watched him open the door and get in, and pulled his own door open, sliding into the car.

"Anyway, two more miles along this road, then we hit a t-intersection and turn left."

"Right."

* * *

The town was small, perched on the edge of a lake, surrounded by forests in nearly every direction. As they came onto the main street, Dean realised he could see all the way to the end, making out the intermittently fritzing blue neon sign of the motel easily.

It had been three months since they'd heard from Ellie, he realised as he pulled the car into the lot. Three months and a shitload had happened. More than a shitload, he thought sourly, pushing away the memories that crowded into his mind and glancing sideways at his brother. A simple haunting was exactly what he felt like to get his mind back on the job. To get both their minds back on the job.

Ellie's white pickup sat at the end of the row of rooms and he pulled in beside it, stopping the car and turning off the engine, not moving, listening the tick of the hot metal as it cooled. Sam looked at him questioningly.

"Nothing," he said, automatically, opening his door and pausing to look back at Sam. "Do we get a room or wait and see what she's got?"

"Wait and see, I guess," Sam said, opening the passenger door and getting out. The air was cool but not cold, summer inching its way toward them. From the parking lot, he could see the dark surface of the lake on the other side of the road, reflecting the forest, and the clouds scudding across the sky, more grey than blue now, he realised, looking up. Opposite the motel, a partly demolished building and mobile crane threw their reflections onto the still water, the effect not so picturesque, he thought.

Dean walked to the room door and knocked. It opened, and Ellie looked up at him, stepping back and gesturing them inside. She looked tired, he thought briefly, as he walked past. He probably did too.

"Thanks for making it," she said, turning and closing the door behind them. "Files are there." She gestured at the table near the kitchenette. "But long story short, the house was built in 1823 by a timber baron, Gideon Thomas McCuilty, made his money logging and exporting and so on. He raised his family here, and in 1841 when the oldest child was fifteen, he murdered them all in the house."

She walked to the small bar fridge and opened it, pulling out two beers. "The estate passed to a distant relative in Scotland, who emigrated and moved into the place in 1845."

Dean sat down at the table as Ellie passed him a bottle, Sam taking his beer as he seated himself in front of the files. Ellie walked back to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot, continuing as she turned back to them.

"He lasted six months before being sent to an asylum in New York where he lived until he was found dead from multiple bite marks in his locked room."

Sam's brow wrinkled and he opened his mouth. Ellie glanced at him. "Not finished yet."

"The house was left empty for fifty years, a lot of trouble finding next of kin and so on. Finally the county got fed up and sold it for the back taxes. It went for a song, almost literally, to a New York musician who renovated it and brought his family to live here in the fall of 1901."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "And they were murdered?"

Ellie nodded, sipping her coffee. "Whole family butchered on Christmas Eve, 1901."

"Vengeful spirit?" Dean swallowed a mouthful of beer, looking at her.

She shrugged. "Whose? There's no pattern to the attacks, aside from it being whoever is in the house. The length of time between someone entering the house and being attacked has gotten shorter over the years. The musician's family lasted two months. The last family who bought the place in 1920 –" She gestured to the file in front of Sam. "– barely lasted the first weekend. The police found them two days later when a carpenter arrived to do some work, couldn't get in and saw the bodies through a window."

Dean looked at her, brows drawing together. "Anyone since then?"

"No families," Ellie said. "And no one's bought the place and tried to move in. But it's developed a reputation as a haunted house and in the last ten years, a few people have gone there and tried to stay."

She watched Sam flicking through the file. "In 1965 a young couple broke down a few miles down the road and disappeared completely. Um, '73 I think, four teenagers thought it would be a good place to hang out and get stoned, and their bodies were found two days later after a county-wide search. A parapsychological research team came here in 1979, set up camp and one woman escaped the following morning. She was committed and has been in a ward for the criminally insane since then."

She pulled out the third chair at the small table and sat down, using a fingernail to flip over the pages to that woman's reports. "She gave a semi-coherent account at the local hospital first but her condition degenerated through the night and around two in the morning, she got out of her bed, broke the glass on an emergency fire axe in the hall and had killed four other patients and one nurse by the time the staff had wised up to what was happening and called the police."

Sam cleared his throat and started to read. "We arrived at ten a.m. on Wednesday morning, and set up the main equipment – our video monitors, telemetry instruments and the analysis equipment – in the dining room. Frank, Carol and I spent nearly two hours installing the video cameras in each of the junctions and levels of the house, while Bart and Hallie installed the rest of the monitoring equipment - thermometers, electro-magnetic frequency detectors and microphones - into the rooms and halls and stairwells. We were going to collect all the data and correlate it to map the manifestations within the house walls."

Dean raised a brow at Ellie. She nodded. "Yeah, they were from Berkeley, had a grant and everything."

"_Patient is exhibiting signs of anxiety, blood pressure elevated, heart rate has increased. Administered second dose haloperidol, 0.2 mg and the interview proceeded_. All of us were wearing personal medical sensors to measure changes in our bodies as they responded to external stimuli. Up till around nine o'clock, we'd felt very little. The house was creepy, but that was all. From nine o'clock, however we began to feel subjective changes. By ten o'clock, the equipment was recording cold spots around the house and the EMF was recording huge fluctuations that were primarily centred around the upstairs areas, the main bedroom seemed to be the focus." Sam looked up from the file to Ellie. "So they knew there was definite ghost activity in the house."

"Seems that way," Ellie agreed. Dean looked at her. She was leaning back in the chair slightly, cradling the coffee, eyes half-closed as she listened to Sam. She had a new scar, just under one side of her jaw, an inch-long slightly twisted line, healed but still red. He wondered vaguely what had happened.

"At midnight all the equipment was showing red line readings. We double-checked everything to be sure it was all functioning correctly. We had divided the house into zones when we set up, and laid salt and iron around the dining room to ensure that it would remain untouched and safe."

Dean leaned forward. "You're kidding me?"

Ellie shook her head. "No, these people knew what they were doing. They weren't hunters but Dr Cauldwell had been investigating hauntings for more than three decades and she knew every angle, knew that it was vital to have a zone of protection to keep the instrumentation and her people safe."

Sam looked back down at the report. "_Patient started to become anxious again and another dose of haloperidol of 0.2 mg was given at eleven hundred hours. In spite of the drug, the patient became agitated and aggressive, blood pressure, heart rate and respiration became erratic and the interview was terminated. Patient was given midazolam / haloperidol combination 0.3 mg at this time_."

"So in spite of the increasing doses of anti-psychotic drugs, she was getting more hyped up?" Dean glanced at the record on the table.

"Yep. By midnight they gave her 100 mg of Thorazine and put her in restraints. When she got out, she broke free of the leather restraints." She looked at them, seeing their understanding of that particular feat of strength on top of the max dose of the drugs. "In any case, she was taken down to a lockdown in Memphis and died there three months later."

Dean finished his beer, stretching his legs under the table as he looked at her. "You got a theory?"

"Several," Ellie grimaced, getting up and taking her cup to the sink. "I thought it might be prudent not to take this house on alone."

Sam glanced at his brother with a half-smile. "What are they?"

"Oh no, read the files first. Come to your own conclusions. We'll see if what we think matches up." She looked at them. "We're not going to rush in here. The police reports on the last two occurrences state that the house was locked when they got there – every door, every window. Once you're inside, you can't get out again, so we're not going in until we know what we're looking for and where it is."

Dean nodded. "Okay." He looked at Sam. "Guess we'd better get a room then."

Ellie tossed him a key. "Room next door is yours. I got it when I checked in. This is my party and I'll pick up the tab."

Sam snorted. "I like working with you."

She smiled at him. "Give me a grading when we're done, Sam."

* * *

Dean looked at his watch, stretching out his back as he got up from the sofa. The files were comprehensive, accompanied by police reports, coroner's reports, photographs, maps, construction plans of the house … he hadn't spent this much time reading through a job file since hunting with his father. The thought brought a fleeting stab of pain and he buried it automatically, going to the bathroom and turning on the tap, splashing water over his face. His stomach was rumbling and it was time to take a break.

Picking up a towel and drying off, he looked out of the bathroom at Sam. "Ready to eat?"

Sam looked up blankly. "What? Oh, yeah. Sure."

Dean put the towel back and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'll see you at the car, just gonna see if Ellie's ready to eat."

Sam nodded absently, gathering up the papers and putting them back in the file as his brother left the room.

Dean knocked lightly at the room door, and after a moment Ellie opened it narrowly, looking out at him.

"We're starving. You ready to eat?" He looked at her as she opened the door a little more, suddenly realising she wearing a bath towel and nothing else.

"Uh … you go ahead. I'll catch up with you tomorrow," she said, lifting the edge of the towel a little higher.

"You're not eating?"

"I have a date."

"What?" He straightened up slightly, staring down at her.

"A date, Dean," Ellie said patiently. "Pretty sure you're familiar with the concept."

"Uh, yeah, but … on a job?"

"Well, the date kind of is the job," she said, gesturing vaguely. "I'm seeing the local sheriff."

"Oh." He stood in front of the door, uncertain of what to say to that. "Well, have fun, I guess."

"Yep, see you tomorrow." The door shut, the lock clicking loudly.

He turned away and walked to the car, sliding into the driver's seat slowly.

"Ellie coming?" Sam looked at his profile curiously.

"No. She has a date." He started the car and reversed out.

"A date?" Sam's brow furrowed as he looked at his brother's neutral expression.

"Hmmm. With the sheriff."

* * *

The town had two places to eat out. The diner on the corner of Main and the first cross street, and the grill and bar closer to the lake. Sam sighed slightly as they drove past the diner.

The grill had a surprising range and they took their beers over to a table in one corner to wait for the food. On the narrow stage to one side of the room, a small band was setting up their equipment, and the long room was slowly filling up.

Dean leaned back as the waitress put his steak in front of him, peering around her at the door. He dropped his gaze to his plate as it opened, and he caught sight of Ellie, glancing up after a moment to see a tall blond man following her in.

"Guess that's the sheriff," Sam said softly, looking at his brother. "Tell me we're not here to spy on Ellie."

Dean snorted. "What? No. We're here to eat. And talk about the job." He lifted a piece of steak on his fork. "What do you think?"

Sam looked down at his food. "Could be the original owner, the father. The local history in the file claimed that he had a temper, was sometimes erratic in his business dealings with people. I don't get a strong vibe that he could've killed his family though. From the accounts Ellie included, he seemed pretty proud of his children."

Dean nodded, mouth full. As Sam continued, he glanced to the side, seeing Ellie sitting with the sheriff several tables to the left, on the other side of the stage.

"There's a reference to someone else who died in the house, died before anyone else, but there isn't much information," Sam said slowly, thinking about it. "While the house was being built, McCuilty had some sort of disagreement with the foreman about the quality of the timber they were using upstairs. There were no eyewitnesses, most of it was overheard, but the foreman disappeared that afternoon, and wasn't seen again."

"Uh huh," Dean tucked his food into his cheek and looked at his brother. "So it's possible that the first blood spilled there was this guy? We got a name?"

"Yeah. Name's Mattison. Ellie wrote a comment beside the account. She couldn't find a trace of the guy anywhere."

"Body buried in the house?"

"Could be," Sam said, shrugging and pushing his plate aside. "If it is, it's going to be a craptastic job finding it."

"Craptastic jobs are what we specialise in, right?" Dean asked, moving his chair further to the right, his gaze sliding left again. She was wearing dark jeans, a black top, her hair loose, glowing with colour against the dark clothes and creamy skin, and some kind of earrings that caught the light every now and again, flashing.

"We should take care of the other possibilities first." Sam finished his beer, glancing at the waitress and raising the empty bottle as she walked past them.

"Yeah, buried locally?"

"The New York family were interred in White Plains," Sam said, running his hand through his hair as he sought the memory of the file. "McCuilty and the whole family are buried in the family plot behind the house."

Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Sure, why not. We'll take a look at it tomorrow."

The band started to play, original songs by the sounds of it, a nice blend of country and rock and a little edge of Celtic folk with the fiddle. He watched absently as several people got up to dance in the cleared area in front of the stage, his attention sharpening as the sheriff got to his feet and held out his hand, watching Ellie laugh as she took it and followed him onto the dance floor.

Sam's attention sharpened as well, on his brother. "You know, you could just ask her out."

Dean looked at him, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"She probably wouldn't say no."

"Shut up." He finished his beer, and pulled out his wallet, looking around for the waitress.

Sam got up, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom and he nodded as the waitress came over with the check, his attention pulled back to the couples circling. The song was a slow one, and the sheriff was holding Ellie close, his hand on her lower back. She didn't seem to mind, he thought, watching her lift her head, the sheriff bending slightly to say something against her ear. He felt a peculiar sensation in his stomach and looked away.

He got up as Sam came back, weaving through the nearly full crowd that had materialised while they'd been eating. Denton's hotspot, he thought sourly, pushing open the door and taking a deep breath of the cool night air as they walked back to the car. They'd check out the house in the morning, take care of the remains of McCuilty and then see if they couldn't find out more about the foreman, Mattison. If the guy was buried somewhere in or under the house, it wouldn't take that long to find him and they could be out of here by the end of the week.

* * *

Dean looked at his watch as he heard the door to the next room open and close. Twelve thirty. _Not a real late night_, he thought, rolling over onto his side. He stopped moving as he heard her laughter again, soft and low, and the rumble of a man's voice.

In the other bed, Sam rolled onto his back and started to snore softly. He was aware that he was straining to hear what was happening in the room next to theirs, over his brother's noise, through the thickness of the walls, and he rolled away, onto his left side. _Forget it. None of your business_, he thought.

He didn't acknowledge the deeper breath he took in and let out as he heard the door open and close again, the sound of the car starting in the lot and driving away.

* * *

He woke to an empty room, filled with morning light and frowned, lifting his arm and looking at his watch. Seven o'clock. He hadn't had that much sleep for a while. Rolling out of the bed, he walked to the bathroom, relieved to have the place to himself for once.

The car was still in its slot when he came out, feeling more awake and hungry, and he turned along the concrete walkway, going to Ellie's door and knocking. Sam opened the door, stepping aside as he walked in.

"You started early," he said, looking at the files over the table. Ellie handed him a cup of coffee.

"How was your date?" he asked, sitting down at the table.

She pushed a slim file toward him across the table. "Productive."

"What's this?" He opened the cover, glancing down at the photocopied sheets of handwriting.

"A copy of the original police file on the disappearance of Hector Mattison, the foreman who disappeared working for McCuilty in 1823," Sam said, pouring a fresh cup of coffee for himself and leaning against the counter.

"Gavin pulled it for me last night," Ellie added, looking at him from over the rim of her cup.

"Gavin?"

"Don't be obtuse," she said, smiling slightly. "Sheriff McAllister."

He had the feeling she knew that he'd been watching them, knew that he'd been awake when she'd gotten in last night. He drank his coffee and started to read. Mattison had a long rap sheet.

He looked up at her when he'd finished. "Not such a great guy."

"No," she agreed. "The house was about two thirds built when he went missing."

"And no one ever mentioned any bad smells during the rest of the construction," Sam added. "If he's in there, he must have been … neutralised somehow first."

"Neutralised?" Dean looked from Sam to Ellie quizzically.

"Salt would do it, but then the spirit couldn't have risen."

"But lye was commonly available and back then it was made from potash, potassium hydroxide, not sodium hydroxide," Sam said, shrugging.

Dean made a face. "So McCuilty dissolved the body and poured it out somewhere in the house?"

"Seems likely," Ellie said, putting her cup down and getting up. "We should take care of McCuilty first, in case it is him, but I think that Hector is the source."

"Where're the graves?"

"Behind the house," she said, picking up her jacket and pulling it on. "There's a fenced off plot near the back of the property."

"Whoa, breakfast first," he growled. "If I'm going to be digging, I need something to eat."

Ellie glanced at Sam, mouth curving up to one side as he snorted. "Of course."

* * *

In the tangled growth at the back of the estate, surrounded by the encroaching woodland, the air was thick and still and heavy. Most of the headstones in the little plot had fallen over, or been pushed over by the rampant grass and weeds that filled the clearing, taking them almost an hour to find the timber baron's grave. The sky was covered with slowly closing cloud, the sunshine hot and flat and almost pewter-coloured, nevertheless beating down on them as they dug out the roots of the grass, cut through the topsoil, throwing shovelfuls onto the growing pile beside them.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the house. It was huge, even for a period when lumber had been plentiful and cheap, and dark, the shadowed porticos and deeply recessed window frames all too reminiscent of eyes, glaring at them while they worked, watching them and considering them.

He shook off the morbid thoughts as the edge of the shovel hit something harder than earth, tossing the tool out of the grave, and using his hands to sweep the loose dirt from the surface of the coffin. At the other end of the hole, Sam was doing the same, and Ellie passed him the pry bar when the top of the box was visible.

The coffin was hardwood and still mostly intact, but there's was almost nothing left of the lining, the man's bones dry and white lying on the base. Ellie passed him the bag of salt and he spread it over the bones, watching the crystals fall, white on white bones, bright against the dark soil and the dark timber. Sam climbed out and braced himself as he extended his hand to his brother, hauling him out of the hole as Ellie squirted butane down into the coffin.

The flame on the match was still and strong, and the contents of the grave lit up instantly as it fell onto the lighter fluid, making them step back from the edge, the fire colourless in the flat light of the day.

Dean turned back to look at the house again. "So, when do we go in?"

"As soon as we're packed up," Ellie said turning to follow his gaze. "We're going to need some provisions, if we can't find the body quickly."

"And protection," Sam added, looking at his brother. "Those bags Missouri made for the house in Lawrence."

Dean nodded, looking at the pile of soil at his feet. "Got plenty of graveyard dirt here at least."

* * *

They sat around the table, making up the hex bags, bowls of graveyard dirt, the leaves and flowers and roots of various herbs, bones and chips of crystal and shards of pottery in the centre, the fine linen and silk and leather bags in different colours and tied up with cords of string, knotted in different ways.

"Missouri didn't use all this stuff for hers," Dean remarked as he loaded another bag and picked up the matching cord, tying it off.

"No, these are more specific," Ellie said absently, tying her own and setting it aside, picking up another coarse linen bag. "This spirit isn't just inhabiting that house, it's become a part of it … it's infiltrated into the very fabric of the timber and stone and earth."

Sam looked at her. "Do we have to destroy the house?"

"I don't think we can, not while it's there, at least." She filled the bag quickly, tying off the cord. "The bags will drive it out of the structure, out into the open. We'll put them right through the place while we're looking for the remains."

"Yeah, about that," Dean said, setting another completed bag aside and looking at her. "How'd you put all this together so fast?"

She smiled, her gaze on what her hands were doing. "It wasn't fast. I was here two years ago."

"Why didn't you finish the job then," he asked, brows drawing together as he thought of the autopsy reports of the last couple of victims, both killed within the last two years.

"We thought we did," she answered mildly. "Found some remains, cleaned the house, the whole nine yards."

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her. "What happened?"

"We didn't have the information on Mattison then, the previous sheriff was … well, he was different sort of person," she hedged. "And we thought we had the right remains but we didn't. Something went of the house when the bags went in, and we watched it for another three months. Nothing happened, it all seemed good." She looked at Dean. "It's not the first time the house has been cleaned. Didn't take because Mattison was able to remain."

She set another bag on the pile, and looked at her hands for a moment. "I didn't know it hadn't worked until I picked up the news report on the last two deaths from a friend further north." She looked up at him. "You know Laney Pike?"

He looked at Sam and they both shook their heads. "If you're sure that Mattison's still in the house, why'd we bother burning McCuilty's remains?"

"Something I read about in Tobin's Spirit Guide a while ago, made me wonder about this place," Ellie said slowly, picking up another bag and filling it. "Spirits who can control other spirits, after death." She looked up at him. "We can't find the bodies of every spirit that died here, they're all over the place. But getting rid of McCuilty will help."

Sam looked at Dean. "So, this place could be full of ghosts?"

"Possibly. Hence the need for the extra special hex bags to clean it all out," she said, with a shrug. "We have to find Mattison's remains or it'll never be over, but we need to release as many of the others as we can too. The bags will do that."

* * *

It was close to one when Ellie zipped up her bag and swung it into the back of the truck. They had salt, butane, the hex bags, guns, iron filings, a small camp stove, food and water, their EMF detectors … _everything we need for a couple of days of ghost-hunting_, she thought.

It wasn't all that likely they'd find Mattison's remains in twenty four hours. The house was big, two wings in addition to the central structure, fourteen bedrooms, formal and informal dining rooms, drawing rooms, parlours and god knew what else. And she and Michael had been through it once, hadn't found the right body when they'd looked. She rubbed her forehead with the inside of her wrist, leaning against the tray and thinking about that. Hidden rooms? Secret stairs or tunnels? McCuilty had designed the house himself, with the help of an architect in New York. Maybe the plans weren't entirely accurate.

_Well, you'll find out once you start looking_, she told herself acerbically. _Get going_.

* * *

Dean watched her get into the pickup, reversing out ahead of her and pulling onto the street, the pickup behind him.

The house was just short of a mile out of the township, overlooking the lake on the northern side. In the flat light, it still seemed forbidding to him, brooding in its wilderness gardens, the dark lake surface in front of it reflecting its ugliness, its over-inflated view of itself. He pulled up in front, parking a short distance from the stone porch and stairs. Ellie parked her truck next to the Impala, and they got out of the cars and gathered their gear in silence, waiting and watching as Sam picked the lock and opened the door.

"Where do you want to leave our stuff?" Dean looked around the dusty and cobweb filled entrance hall slowly. The room was enormous, an oval in shape, with the staircase curving around one end, and doors to either side of them, a hallway extending back under the staircase to the rooms at the rear of the place.

"Well, not the dining room," Ellie said. "The focus is supposed to be the master bedroom, that would probably be the best place."

Dean looked at Sam, who shrugged. "No point pretending we can hide, not inside here."

They started up the stairs and Dean felt the back of his neck begin to prickle. _No awards for knowing that they were heading into danger here_, he thought wryly. _Straight into the lion's mouth_.

They climbed the stairs and looked up and down the long, wide hallway that extended in both directions from the landing.

"Which way?"

"Right," Ellie said, shifting her bags on her shoulders and walking toward the west wing. "We have to stay together," she added over her shoulder. "The house plays tricks with perspective and illusion."

"The house or the ghost?" Sam asked, striding out to catch up with her.

"They're the same now," Ellie replied, glancing at him. "Doesn't matter what you see, assume it's not real."

Dean looked back as they walked, blinking rapidly as the hallway seemed to extend for a moment, then snapped back to its correct length. _Carny fun_.

The main bedroom was huge. A four-poster bed, elaborately carved and festooned with shredded silk curtains, cobwebs and dust, seemed quite small against one wall, wide floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the lake, the township just visible through the forest. Ellie dropped her bags and pulled out the salt canisters, running a line along the baseboard of the walls, enclosing the room in its protection.

"Where do you want to start?" She looked at Dean when it was done. "Michael and I looked at all the normal places. I think we need to check the walls for differences in thickness, for panels and hidey holes as well this time."

"Basement, work our way up?" He looked at Sam, who nodded.

"Ellie and I searching, you on lookout," Sam said, picking up his shotgun and EMF.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Ellie. "Alright with you?"

"Yep."

* * *

Dean could feel the afternoon hours ticking away as they searched the house. The basement had been clean, in a manner of speaking, very little EMF at all but as they'd come on to the ground floor, their detectors had started to register shifting signals, and they'd felt the localised cold spots, areas where their skin had crawled, their pulses had accelerated. He held the pump action shotgun loosely, swinging the barrel as he turned ceaselessly, watching the corners and the shadows, his back to Ellie and Sam who were scouring the walls and floor, lifting the rugs, pressing against likely-looking or reactive fittings, measuring the depths of the walls and the rooms.

"Got one," Sam said softly, pressing against the carved architrave of a built-in bookcase. The timber moved a little and Ellie lifted the torch and shotgun, as he opened it. The gust of wind that blew out of the blackness behind the wall panel was rank and old and a little damp. Dean glanced over his shoulder at the hole, face screwing up as he caught the smell.

Ellie looked at Sam with a wry grin. "Think you're going to get in there, Sam?"

He looked at the low, narrow dimensions and chewed on his lip. "I might."

She shook her head. "Ladies first anyway."

"Wait a minute –" Dean turned around as she disappeared into the darkness, outlined against the beam of the flashlight as she moved cautiously deeper.

_Goddamnit_. He looked at the tight opening. He was going to have difficulties with the space, he might squeeze in but he wouldn't be able to shoot the damned shotgun with her ahead of him, and no room to turn around.

"Give her a minute," Sam said, feeling the temperature drop suddenly next to his shoulder. "Dean!"

The two shotguns rose together as a spirit manifested by the bookcase, two salt-and-steel rounds blasting holes into the books and wood, the spirit disappearing immediately.

"Ellie?" Dean leaned back toward the hole. "Ellie!"

"Yeah," her voice was faint, as if she'd moved a lot further away. "I'm okay."

"Bullshit," Dean muttered under his breath, handing Sam the pump action and taking the sawn off from him. "I'm going after her."

Sam pulled two hex bags from his pockets and handed one to Dean, placing the other one on the ledge above the opening. "Don't get stuck in there, Dean."

"Try not to," he said, ducking and sliding in sideways, flicking his flashlight on, and breathing shallowly through his mouth to avoid the worst of the stench. He edged his way forward, seeing that the narrow tunnel went in for about six feet then seemed to turn sharply to the left.

"Ellie?" He could hear his voice echoing slightly in the small space, and wondered if phones would work.

"Coming back," Ellie's voice sounded clearer and louder and he breathed a sigh of relief, crabbing awkwardly to the turn, feeling the rough timbers scraping against his back.

He reached the corner and stepped into it, raising the flashlight as he did. Ahead of him, just beyond the right angle, his father stood, bruised and bloody, his eyes filled with yellow fury.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" John Winchester shouted at him.

He slammed back against the wall, heart jammed in his throat as John took a step closer, lips peeling back from black, rotted teeth, the skin of his face cracking and crazing over the bones, small, wriggling white things dropping to the floor, his breath wheezing out over Dean, dense with putrefaction.

"Asked you a question, boy!"

He couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, frozen in place against the frame and lathe and plaster. John stook another step closer and he could see the flames now, dancing against the dark green irises that stared into his, could smell the sweetish-sour scent of roasting pork.

"Dean?" There was a shift in the air as the iron knife sliced through the apparition and Ellie stood in front of him, damp with sweat, looking at him worriedly. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he got out, pulling in a deep breath of the cool, musty-smelling air, no trace of the smell of decomposition in it now. "Just … I'm fine."

She nodded, gesturing slightly with the flashlight for him to head back out, and placing a hex bag in the wall at the turn.

He inched his way sideways along the tunnel, feeling the sweat dripping from his hair, and running down his neck. Just a fucking ghost, but it had been so real-looking, for a moment there. _The house will use whatever's in your mind and turn it against you_, Ellie had said. He hadn't realised exactly what that'd meant. He knew now.

Sam took one look at him and reached out, gripping his shoulder as he came out.

"What? What happened?"

"You didn't hear it?"

Sam looked at him. "Hear what?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing, just thought I saw something in there." He moved out of the way to let Ellie out. "It's fine, I'm fine."

"Dean, you're soaked." Sam saw his brother's face harden and turned away. Dean didn't want to talk about it. Probably not at all, but definitely not in front of Ellie.

"Where'd the tunnel go?" he asked her.

"About fifteen feet toward the front wall of the house, then it just stopped. There might a way through, but I couldn't find it and it was getting damned cold in there." She looked at Dean for a moment. "We'll look for another way in."

He turned away, heading for the door of the drawing room.

"What happened?" Sam asked her in low voice as they followed Dean out. Ellie shrugged.

"I didn't see anything, but it was obvious Dean did, I used the iron and whatever it was disappeared."

"Did you hear anything?"

"No."

"Is it the house?" Sam looked at his brother's tense back. "Playing with us?"

"Definitely."

* * *

They found two more tunnels and a hidden room on the ground floor, all filled with foul, unchanged air, dust and old cobwebs, none of them showing any activity. Dean looked at his watch, seeing that it was past midnight by the time they'd finished checking the last room. He hadn't seen another manifestation in any of the rooms, but he was pretty sure that Sam had seen something, finding his brother standing at the second tunnel entrance, staring rigidly into the darkness. As they headed up the stairs to check the second story, Ellie took point and he looked at Sam.

"What'd you see?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "I saw Jess."

Dean nodded. "I saw Dad."

"Ellie said it's playing with us," Sam added, looking behind them as he felt a cold draught whisper around his feet. He swore and pulled out his phone, turning on the camera and spinning around. On the screen, he could see several ghosts, following them up the stairs.

"Shit, forgot about that too," Dean said, pulling his own phone out. "Ellie, you can see them in your phone."

He turned to look up the stairs when she didn't answer, and felt his whole body go cold. "Ellie?"

The landing above them was empty. He scanned the phone along the hallway, seeing movement and pale colour further down but nothing else.

"Ellie?" Sam called out, looking at the line of closed doors on both sides of the long hall.

"Ellie!" Dean looked up the other hall.

The pounding made them both jump, coming from the wall in front of them.

"Sam!" Ellie's voice was muffled. "I'm in the wall!"

Dean reversed the shotgun barrel and slammed the butt into the plaster wall, breaking through. He hit it again a little further along, and used the length of the barrel to lever out lathe and plaster sheet, shifting the gun to one and yanking more away.

"Sam."

Sam gripped another section and wrenched it loose, plaster dust and dirt billowing into the air around them as they pulled at the wall. Dean flicked on his flashlight, seeing Ellie standing a foot away, her face and hair and shoulders covered in dust and grime, green eyes vivid in the light's bright beam. Then he saw something move behind her.

"Drop!" He swung the barrel up and fired as she dropped instantly to the floor. The ghost disappeared, appearing again to the other side of her, Sam's pump blowing it away again. Dean looked down into the wall space through the enlarged hole.

"Come on." He put his hand through and felt her grip it, Sam clearing another piece of lathe and both of them pulling her out of the wall and clear.

"What the fuck happened?" Dean looked at her, then at the landing. "You were right in front of us."

"Yeah, I was turning around when Sam said something about forgetting something, and then I was behind the wall." She wiped futilely at the muck on her face, looking at the equal amount of dirt on her hands. "I could hear you, and I started yelling, but it was like yelling into cotton wool." She looked her head. "Then it cleared."

"Do we keep looking or get some rest?" Sam looked from Ellie to Dean. "I'm starting to feel a bit punchy."

"Two on watch, one sleeping?" Ellie suggested. They nodded and turned toward the master bedroom.

As they crossed the line of salt the shivery, cold feeling disappeared, the muted squawks of the EMF detectors fell to silence and Dean felt the tension that had been in his shoulders and back since they'd come into the house gradually start to leech out of his muscles. He picked up a bottle of water, unscrewing the lid and swallowing half in big gulps, washing the dust and smells from his mouth.

"I'll take first watch with Ellie, then second with you. You two can take dawn."

Sam nodded, pulling out his sleeping bag and spreading it over the floor on the other side of the bed. Ellie sat down, keeping the shotgun cradled over her knees as she lit the small butane lamp and set it on the other side of the bed from Sam.

"Are we safe in here?" Dean asked her softly. She looked around.

"The parapsychology team weren't, so no, I wouldn't say so," she answered. He sat down next to her, Sam's legs in his peripheral vision, and took the wrapped sandwich she handed him. _Weirdest fucking camp-out ever_, he thought, unwrapping the waxed paper and taking a bite.

"You see anything, when you were in the wall?" he asked, looking at her unwrap her food and bite into it.

She looked at him, chewing and swallowing before she answered. "No. Michael … Michael taught me a lot of tricks to keep my mind clear of that kind of interference. Mental tricks." She looked down at the sandwich. "You did, didn't you? Saw something, in the tunnel?"

He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. What was the point of lying now, he thought. She'd seen his face, she knew he'd seen something. And a memory of being held in the dark when pain had ripped into him and torn him from the inside out slipped into his mind.

"I saw my Dad," he said softly, flicking a glance at Sam. "The way he looked when he was possessed by the demon."

Ellie nodded. "Michael told me once that the dead can see everything. I don't know if he meant all the time or just when they were transitioning from one state to another, but whatever is in this house, it can definitely see inside of us, inside our fears and our memories."

"How do you shut it out?"

"Concentration. Meditation. Focus." She smiled a little wryly at his sceptical expression. "It wasn't something I learned overnight."

"So you can't teach me," he said, looking around the room.

"I can, but not in the next five minutes," she said with frank amusement. "And not if you're trying to convince yourself it doesn't work."

He looked at her, one side of his mouth lifting slightly. "That's what most grifters say when they're asked to prove it."

She laughed softly. "Ouch."

He smiled, looking away, gaze moving around the room again, finishing his sandwich in two bites. The butane lamp's light was bright, lighting one side of the room, leaving the other in semi-darkness.

"He gave up his life for me, you know," he said softly, not realising that he was going to say it until the words had come out. "Made a deal."

He couldn't look at her, didn't want to see her expression, looking at the windows that showed only blackness outside instead.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

He'd been expecting confusion, or shock or even denial. He didn't expect the quiet understanding that filled her voice and lay on his pain like a gentle balm. She'd been in the same position, he knew. But he still hadn't expected it.

Silence filled the room and he was surprised at that too. Most people didn't like silence. Didn't like their own thoughts. Didn't want to have to hear them. He felt his tension dissolving in it.

After a time he looked over at her, seeing her head turning slowly as she scanned the room, her hands curled lightly around the shotgun in her lap. She looked relaxed, easy with herself. He didn't think he'd ever looked like that on a job, couldn't remember feeling like that anyway.

"You always call Sam," he said.

She smiled. "Sam gave me his number. I don't have yours."

He ducked his head, looking away. He hadn't realised that. And she'd known what he was talking about, even though to someone else it might have been cryptic. He could feel her eyes on him, could feel her curiosity, then it was gone, and when he looked back at her, she was looking at the doorway.

"Something?"

She shook her head. "No."

With the rolling shifts, they'd get about four hours sleep each. Enough to keep going. He wondered if they would even be able to find Mattison's remains.

"How was Italy?"

She glanced back at him, lips curving up. "Hectic."

"What was the job?" he asked, knowing that he was probably only going to get single word answers. She didn't talk about jobs much, or the past, or herself.

"Shtriga."

As expected, he thought. "You work over there a lot?"

"Some. I made a lot of good friends in Europe, and I try and catch up whenever I can."

_Good friends_, he thought. _A lot of good friends_. He wasn't even sure what that meant. Nearly all of his friends had been killed when Meg went on her spree.

"Hunters?"

"No, not all of them," she said slowly.

"Civilians?" He couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice and she laughed a little.

"No. Not civilians."

She was easy to be with, he thought irritably, but hard to have a conversation with. He wasn't sure why. Being on a job? The subject matter? Something else? The memory of another awkward conversation came into his head and he pushed it away. The time he'd spent, in a dream world under the poison of the djinn, had given him memories that felt as real as any other, but were false, fakes.

"You ever have a wish that came true?" He shifted around, looking at her, wanting her take on what had happened to him. She looked at him warily.

"No. What kind of wish?"

"Something you wanted, something you never told anyone about." He shrugged slightly, not sure how specific he wanted to be. He looked at her and saw a very faint tension in her, in the muscles of her fingers around the barrel of the gun, in the line of her throat and the tilt of her head.

"No." Her attention was fully on him, he saw that clearly.

"We ran into a djinn recently."

He saw the tension disappear as if it hadn't existed, and wondered what he'd said that brought the tension and then vanished it. She hadn't moved an inch, but it was just gone, her body relaxed again.

"You got a wish?"

"Not really," he said, looking away. "I got a glimpse of a life. It wasn't real. It was in my head."

Ellie nodded understandingly. "I've seen their work."

"I wanted to stay in that other life," he said softly. "I knew it would kill me, but I wanted to stay."

"What was the life?"

He drew in a deep breath. "Mine, if nothing had happened."

"Family and safety." She exhaled quietly and again he was surprised by the way she knew what he'd wanted.

"Yeah," he said, looking at her. "Wasn't exactly perfect though."

For a moment he didn't think she'd say anything, then she looked away and shrugged. "You wouldn't be who you are if things had happened differently. I guess that some people don't get to see what they're capable of unless something happens."

He felt a flash of anger, as he had standing in front of his father's grave. "Maybe I don't want to be who I am."

Something, some indefinable expression passed over her face and he stared at her, wishing he'd been able to see what it was. She looked away, closing her eyes.

"The cost."

"Yeah."

She nodded and didn't say anything else. He remembered suddenly that she wouldn't be alive now if his life had been that apple-pie, everyone-alive-and-no-one-died story. He let out his breath.

"Ellie."

She shook her head, and the tension was back, she was on her knees watching the doorway, her head turning as she rapidly scanned the room. He rose to a crouch, finger slipping around the double triggers, feeling the skin at the back of his neck prickling.

The room bulged. There was no other way to describe it. The walls and ceiling bowed inward and then outward, pulsing like some monstrous heart chamber and something black and thick and foetid dripped down the walls. The booming started a second later, a giant hitting a gong with a hammer, the plaster on the walls crumbling and falling with each massive reverberation of the sound. A flicked glance over his shoulder showed his brother still asleep, and he wondered if the noise was just in his mind.

He saw Ellie swing for the door in his peripheral vision and turned as well, seeing the door bending and flex, pushed inward by some outside force, the hardwood panels as soft and malleable as skin.

"When it opens," Ellie breathed beside him. He nodded and aimed the shotgun for the lower half of the door, seeing her barrel aimed at the upper half.

It didn't open, it split down the middle and they fired together, the guns drowning out the booming. Sam sat up, staring around at them. The room looked as it had five minutes ago, no bulging, no dripping, just a large and dusty room, the door peppered and gouged by rock salt and steel pellets.

"What happened?" Sam looked at them as they lowered the guns.

"Hallucination," Ellie said shortly, reloading.

Sam ran his hand through hair. "Must have been a good one."

She snorted. "Yeah."

"Get some rest, Ellie," Dean looked at Sam, who rolled to his feet. "We'll wake you in a couple."

He wanted to apologise to her, but he didn't know what for. For wanting his life to be something else? For wanting to be someone else? He thought of the guy he'd been, in that dream, the one his brother knew. The one that his mother knew. He'd seemed like … kind of a douche, he thought uncomfortably. The girl in the dream had said … what had she said? _He doesn't know what he's missing_. What had Sam been missing?

He looked over his brother, sitting a couple of feet away, scanning the room.

_I guess we just don't really have anything in common. You know?_

_Nothing in common_. No shared childhood of monsters and motels, salt and iron and guns and blood. Just good, normal lives where he'd been a guy who'd stolen his brother's ATM card and his prom date. Where his mom had assumed he'd been drinking because he turned up in the middle of the night and told her that he loved her. Where it seemed like he'd been living with a girl who'd given him a free pass on whatever it was he did for some reason he couldn't imagine. Who had he been? Who'd that guy been?

"You okay, Dean?"

He looked up to see Sam's forehead crinkled as he looked at him.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said, looking around the room.

* * *

"Dean."

Ellie's voice was low and he turned around, gaze sharpening as he saw what she was looking at. The wall panel beside the fireplace had swung open, a square black hole beyond it.

_At least it's big enough for all of us to get into_, he thought uneasily. He looked down at his EMF. The needle was flatlined, the volume turned right down but it would be shrieking like a devil right now if it wasn't. He nodded to Ellie and glanced at Sam, stepping up to the hole and inside, taking point.

He heard Ellie's soft footfalls behind him, and Sam's louder ones behind her. His flashlight lit up the tunnel and ahead he could see it turning to the right. Ellie's light was directed at the floor, lighting up their footing, Sam's pointed mostly behind him as his brother moved sideways, watching their back trail.

They'd been putting the hex bags everywhere, in the walls, in the hidden passages they'd found, in the floors, along every conceivable path and junction. He wasn't convinced that any of them were working; they hadn't seen the blast that had occurred when the last bag had gone into the wall in the Lawrence house. But that house hadn't been clean when they'd left either.

The first noise was shocking. A thump that felt and sounded as if the house had been hit by something, something enormous. He stopped, feeling the timbers under his feet trembling.

"Keep going," Ellie said firmly. "We're getting close, it's going to get bad."

_Great_, he thought nervously, wondering how bad was bad as he walked forward.

"Nothing you see is going to be real," she continued quietly behind him. "But it'll be the worst thing you can imagine, the worst thing the ghost can find in your mind."

He scowled as he heard Sam's sharply indrawn breath. _Sonofabitch was going down and that was all there was to it_.

He slowed, as the walls to either side of them began to drip a liquid that gleamed in the beam of the flashlight, and a smell, thickening and noxious, filled the passage. _Not real_, he told himself, setting his teeth against the stench. _Not real_, and he kept walking.

The skittering noise ahead was more understandable, but no less unnerving. He and Sam had been trapped in an abandoned sewer once, for a few hours as their father and Jim had struggled to get them out. The sewer had been the home to rats, a lot of rats. The chittering sound of their claws on the stone, the squeaks and rustlings and slurring of their tails over the floor … the memory rose up and he swallowed hard as the flashlight beam ahead of him filled with the pinpoint reddish reflections of hundreds of eyes.

"You're not seeing this, are you?" he asked Ellie over his shoulder. She stepped close behind him, looking up the tunnel where the light was pointed.

"No, nothing there," she said, fingers closing lightly around his arm and squeezing.

"Good to know," he said, moving forward, ignoring the increase in the sounds of the teeming mass in front of him. He forced himself to walk right up into them and they disappeared. _Not real. Not real. Not real_.

The passage turned and they followed it, Dean getting the sense that they were moving deeper somehow into the house. The walls bulged in and out, coated and slimy with gelatinous liquid and still exuding the smell of putrescence. He heard bangs and knocks, booming and clanking and twice, a high pitched shriek that drilled into his ears, setting his teeth on edge until it faded away in a gurgle of bubbling sobs. None of it was real. Behind Ellie, he could hear Sam's breathing changing, getting faster and harsher and slowing down, and knew he was seeing at least some of it. Ellie walked behind him, her steps light and her breathing inaudible, pressing him on, and her lack of reaction to any of it steadied him.

"You see anything ahead that you don't like, just blast it, Dean," she said softly, and he nodded, fingers tightening around the sawn-off in his hand. Whatever happened behind them was Sam's responsibility.

The light lit up a blank wall and they walked to the t-intersection, looking up and down the passage that crossed in front of them. Their EMFs were still flatlining, Sam's phone showed ghosts both ways, and behind them, although aside from chilling the air, those spirits weren't doing anything at all.

"Call it," Ellie said. He turned left. The sense of wrongness, of something resisting them felt stronger that way.

His father appeared with the same heart-stopping abruptness as he had earlier and Dean hesitated, looking at him. John looked exactly the same as he had in the hospital before he'd died. His face was twisted in pain, and his eyes begged for help, tears rolling down his cheeks into the short beard.

"Dean, don't leave me here," the deep voice filled his ears, low and harsh now. "Please, son, don't leave me here to die."

He wasn't in Hell anymore, he thought, fighting against every instinct he had. He'd gotten out through the gate in Wyoming and gone. _Not real_.

"Dean –"

"Whatever it is, it's not real," Ellie said from behind him and he raised the gun barrel.

"You gonna listen to that cheap piece of ass over your own father, you pissant little shit?" John screamed at him, his face twisted into rage as he stepped toward Dean.

The boom of the shotgun filled the passage and for a second everything disappeared, leaving him with a glimpse of a dry, narrow tunnel, framed and lined and floored in wood, nothing extraordinary about any of it. The apparition had vanished. Then the walls resumed their slow pulsing and dripping, the smell returned, stronger than before.

The air was getting colder and he braced himself for whatever else was coming, walking faster. When his mother appeared around the next bend, he felt a burst of anger rising over the pain.

"That the best you got for me?" he yelled, lifting the barrel of the gun. "She died too, out of your reach." The salt and shot peppered the passage's walls and he strode forward.

"Not anger, Dean," Ellie hurried to catch up, flicking a glance over her shoulder at Sam who was right behind her. "Don't let any emotion out."

They came around the bend and saw the room, slowing and stopping at the entrance.

It was red and glowing and alive, the walls fleshy and shiny and breathing in and out, the floor heaving and throbbing, the ceiling dripping ropey strands of clear liquid that steamed slightly as it touched the surface beneath.

Boom.

_Boom. _

Boom.

BOOM.

_BOOM._

The house was shaking, the timbers creaking and groaning under the pressure, the walls vibrating in sympathy with the sound.

"What the fuck?" Dean emptied both barrels into the far wall. Nothing changed. He felt Ellie move past him. She pulled out the hex bags from her pocket, throwing one at each wall, then dragged the salt container from the small backpack over her shoulder, stepped onto the heaving floor and spilling salt around the edges. Nothing happened. A long string of liquid extended down from the ceiling, touching her shoulder and Dean watched in horror as it ate through the cloth of her jacket, the fabric burning and crumbling away.

"Ellie!"

"It's not real. This is where his remains are, in the floor," she yelled back at him, face screwed up in pain as the acid dissolved through her clothes and began to burn her skin, smoke rising in thin ribbons as it ate deeper.

Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room and he felt the sharp sting then a deep gouging burn over his shoulder as another ropey strand of liquid dripped onto him. He felt Sam's back against his as figures began to come out of the walls, walking toward them, their faces barely recognisable under the bubbling clear goo that covered them … his father and mother, Jim, and Caleb and Madison and Jessica.

"Not real, Sam!" He turned, thumping a fist into his brother's shoulder as he saw the expression on Sam's face. "Not fucking real!"

Ellie was on her knees, teeth grinding against the pain of the acid burns that had turned her upper body into a raw, flayed carcass. She leaned on one hand, still pouring salt over the floor, the canister swinging wildly and unsteadily. Dean leaned down and took it from her, emptying it across the floor in wide swaths, ignoring the way the crystals appeared to be disappearing into the soft surface. _Not real. Not real_. This was a room somewhere in the house, with a real hard floor and real walls and nothing else but a stain in the middle. Sam turned, his eyes half closed, helping Ellie to her feet as she passed the bottle of lighter fluid to Dean, taking another from her bag and opening it, squirting it across the undulations.

"Matches, Sam!" she screamed over the noise, a rivulet of liquid falling onto her face as she looked up at him, burning through the skin and the dark red brows, through one eye and down her cheek.

He pulled out the matchbook and thrust her back toward the passage. "Dean, get out of here!"

Dean looked at him and reloaded the gun, pulling the triggers and sending more salt and pellets into the floor. He backed up, staying close behind Sam as he lit the match and tossed it into the centre of the room. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the room went up with a whoosh of indrawn air, flames bursting from the floor and walls, spiralling tightly to the ceiling. They backed up the passage, and looked at each other, the burns and blackened skin gone, clothing intact. The heat from the fire was reaching out after them and Sam turned, running for the way out, Ellie and Dean hard on his heels.

The wind in the passage grew stronger, air sucked past them as they ran, feeding the inferno behind them that licked and devoured the aged, dry timbers of the house, crackling and roaring, explosions as the fire became hotter and found the damp patches in between the floors.

Sam came to the wall panel and jumped, hitting it with both feet first, splintering through the panel and rolling when he hit the floor. Instantly more air rushed past them and Dean realised that the house was going to go up faster than they'd imagined.

"Bedroom, get our gear, we gotta get out – now!" he panted, pushing Ellie through the doorway and into the hall. At the far end of the long east wing hallway, flames were fluttering over the ceiling and the air was already warm. They turned and ran, hearing the creak and groan as the timbers were charred and weakened or consumed outright, smoke beginning to thicken the air around them.

They gathered their gear and headed to the landing, doubled over as smoke and flames rolled over the ceiling above them. The stairs were just ahead ahead of them when the wall supporting the staircase erupted, heat and fire billowing out over the stairs and rising to the vaulted roof of the entrance hall, Sam skidding to the edge of the balustrade as he tried to stop and turn at the same time.

"Servants' stairs," Ellie yelled, turning for the other wing, hearing the heavy thump of the men's' boots behind her. The other side of the house was cooler, but a glance backward showed the fire was gaining on them. House is too old, too dry, Dean thought, or too full of things that wanted to take them with it.

The servant's stairs were narrow and twisting, but clear of smoke and fire and they came out in a short hallway between the kitchen and the various pantries. Sam opened the lock on one of the sash windows that lined the hall and pushed, exerting more and more effort as the window refused to budge. Dean pulled him back, lifting the automatic and shooting at the glass. The bullet dropped to the floor without touching the glass and he stepped forward and picked it up, looking at the flattened shape.

In the main part of the house they could hear crashing now, as the structure burned and fell, the upper storeys collapsing onto the lower ones and bringing them all down.

"Ideas?" He looked from Ellie to Sam, one brow raised. Ellie looked at the hallway, wondering what was over them.

"We might survive the house coming down if we can find a strong cupboard, move it under that doorway." She pointed to the doorway to the kitchen, a thick stone arch. He nodded.

"Let's find that cupboard."

The groaning smash came from the front of the house and they froze, looking at each other.

"That wasn't the fire," Ellie said.

"No," Dean agreed. There was an odd rattling, squeaking noise then another crash from the front, and they walked back through the kitchen, hearing the squeaking noise above the roar of the fire, shrill and discordant.

They came into the entrance and stared.

The front door, portico and balcony had disappeared, leaving a wide open gap. The thousand pound steel ball was being dragged slowly out of the hall, sending the debris in its path to either side. Beyond the gap, they saw the crane, struts planted to either side, the squeaking noise louder, the thick wire cable drawing the ball out of the house.

"Come on, whole place is going to fall down in a minute, get out here!" The command came from a tall, lanky man, dark blonde hair pulled back in a long ponytail, wearing jeans, plaid shirt and a bright construction worker's vest over them.

Ellie scrambled out over the piles of timber and masonry and plaster, following the ball outside.

"What are you doing here?" She shot past the crane to the man, who opened his arms and caught her, hugging her tight.

"Laney got worried about you, and the motel said you'd left yesterday but hadn't checked out."

Dean and Sam followed Ellie more slowly, looking from the man to the crane operator, and back to the house, which was sending billowing clouds of black smoke into the air, the fire shooting from the second storey windows, the attic and third storey gone.

"Jeremy, this is Sam and Dean Winchester. Jeremy Mann, hunter." She turned as they shook hands, walking to the crane and smiling as the driver pulled off a helmet and swung down to the ground.

"Saved your bacon, Ellie," Laney's voice was deep and filled with amusement. "We're square now, hon, right?"

Ellie grinned at her. "Right." She glanced at the crane. "New acquisition?"

"Hell no, this is just a loaner," Jeremy said, walking over to them with Dean and Sam.

"Uh, Dean, Sam, this is Laney Pike. Also a hunter," Ellie said, stepping aside.

Dean looked down at the diminutive blonde woman in front of him, smiling. A few years older, he thought, but extensively easy on the eye. She looked back at him, and he caught the reciprocated interest instantly.

"Winchester," she said slowly. "Yeah, I know that name."

He glanced at his brother, seeing Sam's raised brows. "You do?"

"Met your father a couple of times, with Bobby Singer, and others," she said, smiling at Sam and holding out her hand. "I was sorry to hear he passed."

"Thanks," Sam said.

She looked past him to the house and then glanced at Ellie. "I'd say this time, the job's done."

Ellie looked at the house as the second storey of the east wing collapsed into the ground floor. "Yeah, I think you're right."

* * *

The bar was full, the small band playing again, and the little dance floor full. Dean tipped his beer up and swallowed a mouthful, glancing down at the woman beside him, as her hand rubbed lightly up his thigh, her arm slipping around him.

"Want to take this someplace else?" Laney murmured softly against his ear. He smiled slightly and nodded.

"Let me finish my beer."

He saw the blond sheriff stop Ellie on her way back over from the bar, bending his head to say something to her. She smiled and gave the man a slight apologetic shrug, turning away as he lifted his hat and walked on.

"Not going to sample the good sheriff's charms tonight?" He asked her as she came up to the table. He saw her eyes rest on Laney's hand for a moment, then move to his face, her expression unreadable.

"No, I've got things to do and places to be," she said with a small laugh, finishing her beer and picking up the leather backpack from under her chair. She turned to Jeremy, kissing him on the cheek. "Take care of yourself."

"You too, honey."

She looked at Sam, her eyes cutting briefly to Dean and then back. "Thanks for the help, it was very much appreciated. Motel's paid up tonight."

Sam grinned. "A plus, Ellie."

She smiled, and looked at Laney. "I'll catch up with you soon."

Laney looked at her uncertainly, nodding. "Sure thing, can always use the help."

Ellie turned and headed for the door. Dean watched her leaving and got up.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said to Laney over his shoulder.

In the parking lot, the white pickup was easy to see. Ellie was standing by the tray, stowing away a bag of gear in the lockbox.

"You some kind of workaholic?" He walked up to her and leaned against the side of the truck. She looked up at him in surprise.

"Not particularly."

"You can't take one night off, just kick back after a job and relax?" He watched her pick up her backpack and walk around him, opening the driver's door and tossing the bag in on the seat.

"Guess not."

"Come on, this is the third time you've taken off straight after a job. What gives?" He looked at her, and she looked away, shrugging.

"It's a long drive to Virginia," she said lightly. "I'd rather get going."

He could feel something not right about that, something that she wasn't saying, something more than the simple explanation. But he couldn't think of how to get her to tell him.

She exhaled softly and climbed into the driver's seat, closing the door gently. "Thanks for your help with this one."

"No problem," he said, brows drawn slightly together.

"You have fun with Laney." She started the engine, glancing back at him. "I'll see you around."

He stepped away from the truck as she pulled out, watching her drive out of the lot. He still had the sense that there was more to it. He saw her taillights disappear down the road and turned back to the bar, walking slowly across the parking lot. The music and talk and laughter were muffled out here, and he stopped in front of the door, hesitating for a moment with his hand on the door handle. He still hadn't given her his number, he thought. He'd meant to do it when they'd gotten back to the motel, but he'd forgotten. He pulled open the door and the noise hit him …


	4. Chapter 4 When It's All About You

**Chapter 4 When It's All About You**

* * *

_**October, 2000. Bedford, Iowa**_

… him hard, a thrum of conversation that filled the long, narrow room. His father walked between the small tables to the bar, nodding occasionally at someone, Dean and Sam following silently behind him, looking around as discreetly as they could, at the engraved symbols that covered the ceiling and the upper walls, at the faces of the other patrons.

Some were smiling and laughing, Dean noticed, but they were a subdued group generally. Pain was etched into most of the faces he could see. Pain and sometimes anger. He was surprised to see several teenagers, some sitting with adults, obviously their parents, at the tables, others gathered around the jukebox in the corner of the room. Hunter's kids, he wondered? Like him and Sam? He wanted to talk to them.

The woman behind the bar smiled widely as they came up to the polished blackwood counter. He looked at her, schooling his features to neutrality as he took in the arresting beauty of her face, her height and grace, even in the way she turned and leaned on the counter, pale golden lights above the bar gilding the ebony skin and frosting the short, white curls that showed the curve of her skull with tips of gold.

"John, it's good to see you again!" she said, her gaze flicking behind him to the young men following, then back to his face. "Heard you got killed at least a dozen times in the last year."

His father laughed, and Dean hid his surprise. He did laugh, from time to time, but it wasn't a regular occurrence, and it hadn't sounded this relaxed in the last two years.

"You sound almost disappointed," he said as he sat down at the bar and smiled at her.

"No, I mourned for days – until I heard the next rumour," she answered, her tone wry. Dean exchanged a look with his brother. Was their father actually flirting?

"Jim here yet?"

"He's in the back, buried in a pile of books and guzzling that Irish he likes so much," she gestured to the end of the bar, then looked past John to Dean. "Are you going to introduce me?"

John glanced over his shoulder. "My sons, Dean and Sam."

"I'm Peg," she said, smiling at them. Dean felt his heart rate accelerate at the smile, struggling to keep his eyes on her face as he smiled back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he managed to get out, stepping up to the bar. He felt his brother jostle up beside him.

"Nice to meet you," Sam added, his voice breaking slightly for the first time in two years, making him duck his head and clear his throat.

John looked at them, amusement evident. "And this is why they haven't been here before."

Her dark eyes sparkled as she turned back to him. "Everyone's entitled to be young once in their life, even if you never were, Winchester."

He snorted and stood, looking at Dean and Sam. When he managed to drag their attention back, he turned to walk down the length of the bar to the closed door at the other end.

* * *

Jim Murphy was sitting alone in the small room, the long table in front of him piled with books and papers, a bottle of Irish whiskey next to his elbow. He looked up as they entered, waving a hand at the chairs.

"Took you long enough," he said. "Disappearances in a town in Washington. Two adults went missing two weeks ago, then two days ago a busload of children crashed down a mountainside, and were believed dead – except when search and rescue finally got down to the site, they couldn't find any bodies."

"Washington?" John frowned as he sat down opposite the priest. Dean moved to the end of the table, Sam following him. They sat down and looked at the books piled up.

"Town called Kettle Falls. It's up in the mountains near the border. Two day drive," Jim clarified.

John looked over the books on the table. "And this would be …?"

"Research," Jim glanced at the books. "There have been twenty six disappearances – inexplicable disappearances – since 1891, when the town was incorporated. Eight adults, and eighteen children. The adults were in their early twenties or late teens. The children were all under the age of ten."

Dean looked at his father's scowl. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

"What the fuck, Jim?"

The priest nodded. "I checked the usual possibilities. None of them fit. I don't know what's going on there." He glanced at Dean and Sam and back to John.

John nodded abruptly, and Dean wondered what had just passed between them that hadn't required words. He looked at Sam who was reading one of the books that Jim had left open. Protecting his brother?

"I'll head out tomorrow," John said to Jim, then turned his head to look at his sons. "You two can stay with Jim for a couple of weeks."

"No," Dean said, almost involuntarily, his jaw setting slightly as he saw his father's brows rise.

"No?"

"You don't know what you're looking for – you need back up," Dean persisted stubbornly, meeting John's gaze, although under the table, his hands had clenched into fists at the act of near-rebellion. It was very rare for him to question his father's decisions and it made his stomach tie itself into knots every time.

"Not this time, Dean," John said, shaking his head. "Vincent called yesterday, asked if I could spare you to help out with a job and I told him you'd be there in the morning."

Dean stared at him. "What kind of job?"

"A job he needs help for," John replied, his voice deepening as he looked at his son, the faint warning in it clear.

Vincent could handle pretty much anything he came across either on his own or with his partner, Dean thought, angry but not prepared to take it further. He felt the familiar flutter of doubt creeping through him, and dropped his gaze.

Sam hadn't taken his eyes off his book, but he knew that his brother had been acutely aware of the entire conversation. Jim was drinking his whiskey calmly, but he knew that the man missed nothing, and the fact that Jim hadn't tried to intervene made him wonder why. He wasn't stupid. He recognised that he fit the profile of the older victims. But he was good at what he did, good enough to go solo from time to time, he wasn't going to screw it up and get caught by whatever it was that was out there. A month ago, his father had sent him on a string of salt'n'burns on his own, any one of which could've turned bad at the last minute – hell, one of them had, he'd stayed away a couple of days longer than needed to let the lump on the side of his head go down.

He knew better than to show those thoughts on his face. Knew better than to argue about it. They didn't work by committee, and it wasn't a democracy. He pulled in a deep breath and told himself to let it go.

* * *

_**3 days later. Blue Earth, Minnesota**_

Dean drove the Impala into the dirt yard in front of Pastor Jim's place tiredly, the headlights splashing over the porch and the small barn as he pulled around and stopped the car.

In the resultant silence, he tipped his head back and let out his breath in a long, slow exhale. The last two days had been … challenging, to say the least, he thought. He no longer thought that his father had lent him to Vincent to keep him out of the way, on a cake-walk job. He looked down at himself, nose wrinkling up as he realised he was still caked in the slimy green blood of the marsh-wraiths, and the now-dried thick black mud of the swamp they'd had to track them through. The combination of scents was not aromatic.

He opened the door and got out, closing it and leaning against the car for a moment. His father had left in the opposite direction at the same time he had, three days ago, the drive to Washington state over fifteen hundred miles. Jim might have heard from him by now. Straightening, he fished his duffle from the back seat and walked slowly up the porch steps. As soon as he'd opened the door, he was hit with the smells of Jim's stew and biscuits and his stomach growled. A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he climbed the stairs, dropping his bag in the bedroom just past the landing and his clothes in the hamper in the bathroom. The scent of the wraith and mud bloomed in the steam-laden shower for a few moments then dissipated as the hot water and copious quantities of soap sent the toxic substances down the drain.

* * *

Jim put down the phone, feeling distinctly uneasy. Sam walked into the kitchen, breathing in the smells of the food appreciatively. He looked at the boy, his expression lightening immediately.

"Did I hear the Impala come in?" he asked him. Sam nodded.

"He went straight upstairs and into the bathroom before I could ask him anything," Sam told him, going to the table. "When's dinner?"

Jim smiled. "As soon as your brother makes it downstairs."

They looked at each other as they heard the bathroom door close and footsteps thump down the hall.

"Good," Sam said, sitting down and opening his book. He was still behind on the English lit reading he needed for college prep and he needed to catch up.

Five minutes later, Dean came into the kitchen in clean clothes, hair still damp and combed flat. He sat down next to Sam, leaning out of his chair to read over his brother's shoulder.

"What's that?"

"Oscar Wilde," Sam said vaguely, turning another page. He realised his brother was staring at him and closed the book. "Required reading."

"Uh huh."

"For school," Sam added.

"Right."

Jim listened from the stove, half-smiling as he ladled stew into bowls and took them to the table.

"How's Vincent?" he asked, sitting at the end of the table.

"Still alive," Dean said through a mouthful of food. "Thanks to yours truly."

Jim laughed as Sam rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Dean, Sam, need to talk to you for a minute," Jim said, when they wandered into the living room later, finished with cleaning up in the kitchen. He watched them exchange a glance and settle themselves on the chair and sofa. They looked so young, he thought, young and unafraid and ready to face the world, neither knowing really what they would be facing in the not-too-distant future.

"I've been trying to get hold of your father for the last day and a half," he started without preamble. "He called when he got to Kettle Falls, but his phone has been out since then."

Dean straightened up in the chair instantly, his eyes darkening as they stared at Jim. The priest wasn't a panic merchant. A day and a half out of touch was nothing, it could take longer just to do the preliminary research, and up in the mountain country signal was pretty haphazard. If Jim was worried, it was something else.

Jim looked down at the glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. "I've been looking around for information on what could possibly do this, and I got a call from an old friend earlier that might fit what's going on."

"And?" Dean's voice was clipped and impatient.

"There's an ancient mythology in the region of Elam and pre-Christian Persia about witch-demons, humans who would take a demon into themselves voluntarily using a ritual and an object, in order to become virtually immortal and have access to demonic power."

Dean felt his mouth drop open slightly. "You serious?"

"Deadly, I'm afraid," Jim grimaced, looking from him to Sam. "It required sacrifices on a regular basis. The life-forces of people to survive."

"That's what Dad's hunting … on his own?" Sam looked at Dean, seeing his brother's jaw muscle leap as he clenched his teeth together.

"I think so," Jim said. "I'm not sure, but the timing seems to about right."

"Why would a three thousand year old witch be living in the boondocks if it had power?" Dean demanded.

"Maybe the powers have waned, I don't know, Dean." Jim exhaled as he looked at him. "Sam can't go. I can't go."

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, I know that."

"Wait – what do you mean, I can't go? We should all go together!" Sam said, his fingers gripping the arm of the sofa. "Dad went in without backup and now you can't get hold of him – you want to send Dean in there without backup as well? What then? What if they both die?"

His fear was written clearly on his face and neither Jim nor Dean looked at him.

"You're not going, Sam. You stay here with Jim," Dean said quietly. "Nothing's going to happen to me. I'll get him back."

"NO!" Sam shouted, getting up. "NO WAY!"

Jim rubbed his forehead. "Sam, weren't you the one telling me how far behind you've fallen with your schoolwork? Wasn't that you?"

"Schoolwork? Uncle Jim, this is my family," he turned to look at the priest disbelievingly.

"Yeah, and I'll take care of it, Sam," Dean said, his expression suddenly exactly like his fathers. Sam looked away from chill green eyes.

"What do I need to kill it?" Dean turned back to Jim.

"There's a kind of a trap," Jim said. "It'll hold the demon in one place. The human vessel can be killed with iron – it takes the connection between the human soul and the demon and leaves the human vulnerable to anything that will kill a person."

"Good." Dean looked around. "Have you got the details?"

Jim shook his head. "Not now. In the morning, Dean."

"No. I'm leaving now," Dean said quietly. "It's a two day drive, I need to get started."

Jim opened his mouth to argue with him, looking at the shadows under Dean's eyes, then closed it again. No argument would dissuade him now. He got up and walked out of the room.

"Dean, you can't do this alone," Sam turned back to him.

"I'm not risking you, Sam. End of discussion," Dean said. He needed coffee, a lot of it.

Jim came back in with two books, notes and slips of paper protruding from between the pages. He handed them to Dean. "The trap design is in here. The general information as well."

"I'll have a look on the way," Dean said, taking them and heading for the stairs. From the bedroom, he retrieved his duffle and the gear bag, grimacing ruefully that he hadn't even had a chance to clean his weapons. _Do it on the road_, he told himself shortly. He could probably make Montana by morning, a quick glance at his watch verified. He might make it into Idaho before he really needed to crash.

Downstairs, he looked from his brother to Jim, then turned and went out the front door without saying anything. There wasn't anything to say, not really.

* * *

_**Coeur d'Alene, Idaho**_

Dean's eyelids were dragging as he pulled into the town, the bright pink sign of the motel beckoning him. Twenty odd hours of driving on top of the three day hunt prior to that had tapped him out almost completely.

He pulled in and got a room, paying for it with a credit card applied for in someone else's name. He couldn't even find the energy to find food, pulling his gear from the car, locking it and stumbling into the room with just the thought of sleep filling his mind.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled his boots off and managed to get out of his jeans, dragging the covers back and falling into the bed. His eyes closed immediately, sleep taking him in the time it took him to draw in a deep breath, and let it out.

* * *

The morning sunshine was filtered softly through the thin curtains and Dean woke slowly, feeling the drag of not quite enough sleep. Lying on his back, he rested his forearm over his eyes. A hot shower and food would help. He got out of the bed and went into the bathroom, turning the taps on and waiting for the hot water to come through. In the spotted mirror over the sink, he looked older, he thought, lifting a hand to rub it over the stubble that darkened his jawline.

Lack of sleep, worry, the un-looked at and held-down fear for his father, none of it helped. He stripped down when steam began to rise above the shower curtain and stepped under the water spray, the heat reducing the left-over ache in his muscles and loosening the tension.

When he came out a few minutes later, he felt marginally better. He looked at the bag full of dirty clothes and sighed, sorting through them by smell for the least dirty and pulling them on.

The diner next door to the motel provided breakfast and coffee, and he read while he ate, committing the details of the creature he would be facing to memory, few as they were.

_Someone should really be putting all this crap together_, he thought an hour later, when he paid the check and returned to the room. _In one place, where hunters could get at it easily. Never happen, though_. His father kept a journal of everything he'd come across, and he thought that Bobby Singer might've. And Jim did, but the others didn't seem to be that interested in recording their knowledge and experience.

He'd drawn out the design for the trap, and he looked at it, chewing on his lip. It could be drawn out with anything, but it was most powerful when drawn in blood. Butcher, he thought. He could get animal blood from a butcher. Lamb's blood seemed to be the preferred option.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and packed everything back into the bags, looking at his watch. Eight. He'd be in Kettle Falls before midday.

* * *

_**Kettle Falls, Washington**_

The gas station was a half-mile before the town, and Dean pulled in, filling the tank and getting a coffee. A park ranger's truck was parked on the other side of the pumps, and a tall, slender blonde girl stood at the counter ahead of him, the close-fitting pants and shirt of the uniform she wore showing off a full figure, memorable on its own, the oval face, cornflower-blue eyes and full lips upgrading her to close to unforgetable. She glanced at him and smiled, and he smiled back automatically, minus the warmth he usually added if an encounter was likely to get more personal. He did watch her leave the store, admiring along with the clerk behind the till, the swing of her ass visible beneath the edge of her jacket.

"Marty Wilcox," the clerk sighed as the door shut and they heard the truck start up. "High school dream."

Dean felt the smile tug at his mouth as he handed over the credit card. "Some dream."

The clerk snorted. "Thought I was going to go blind in senior year."

The comment surprised a laugh out of him and he nodded understandingly as he walked out.

* * *

He pulled into the motel just before ten, seeing his father's truck parked in front of Number Eight. Driving the Impala into the visitor's space on the other side of the lot, he forced himself to breathe deeply and steadily, ignore the prickling on the back of his neck, the rush of tremors that kept zapping through him like static build-up.

He looked around casually as he crossed the lot, walking to the door of his father's room. No one was there, the windows of the motel's office shuttered against the bright sunlight. It took a minute to pick the lock and he opened the door, already knowing that Dad wasn't in there, wouldn't have missed the small noises of the picks feeling their way through. The room was empty.

On one wall, the photos and missing person reports had been pinned over a large scale map of the area. John had gotten documentation on the other disappearances too, he realised, walking closer to study the locations his father had marked. Seen together, they radiated out from a single point. He leaned closer to the map, mouth twisting up as he read the name of the mountain that seemed to be the central point. _Hoodoo Mountain_. Barely six miles from the town, yet only accessible via hiking trails. He frowned as he saw a scribbled comment in his father's handwriting on the forested south-east flank of the mountain.

_Caves._

Dean straightened up, and looked at the roads into the national park, at the trails criss-crossing the range. He needed to talk to the park ranger.

* * *

An hour later he walked into the Parks and Recreation station just out of the town. The blonde was sitting behind a desk to one side of the room and she got up, smiling at him as she crossed the room to stand behind the counter.

"Couldn't keep away?" she said lightly. His mouth lifted at one side as he pulled out his ID.

"Actually, I need to see the head ranger," he said.

She leaned forward and looked at the badge. "Isn't Kirk Hammett the leader guitarist of Metallica?"

Dean raised his brows. "Is he?"

"You'll want Pete." She turned away and walked to a door on the other side of the room. "Pete! Someone to see you."

Turning, she walked slowly back toward him, stopping behind the counter. "So, Agent Hammett –"

"Special Agent Hammett," he corrected.

"Special Agent Hammett, are you in town for long?" She leaned on the counter toward him.

"I might be. These things take time to check out," he said slowly, wondering why it was never this easy when he had the time and inclination to take advantage of a girl's obvious interest.

"Thanks, Marty, I'll take it from here," a man said as he came through the door. Ranger Pete, Dean thought, glancing at the tall, lean man walking toward them.

"Lenny just called in, he's got a bear down on Route 20, needs a hand. Take the truck."

She looked around, a barely visible pout on her mouth and Dean sighed inwardly as she straightened up and left the office.

"Sorry about that, Marty just started with us at the beginning of the year and well, it's a small town and she thinks she's kind of big fish in it."

"No problem." Dean handed him his badge.

The man, his name tag advising that he was Ranger Peter Hamilton, looked carefully at Dean's identification and nodded slowly.

"What can we do for the FBI, Agent Hammett?"

Dean looked around the open plan room. "I need to know the access roads and trails to the southern side of Hoodoo Mountain, for one."

He turned back to Ranger Hamilton. "And any reports you've had from hikers or anyone about anything strange or frightening in the local area."

"Had a reporter come in earlier this week, asking about those very same things," the ranger said, looking at him curiously.

"Older man, rough-looking?" Dean leaned on the counter between them. The ranger nodded.

"What's going on up there?" he asked. "It's our problem more than the Federal Bureau of Investigation's, I'd have thought."

Dean shrugged, his expression ingenuous. "To be honest, I'm not sure myself. A report crossed my boss' desk that you had missing bodies of a bus crash and I got assigned to look into it."

"And the reporter?" Hamilton asked.

"From Washington, he was the one who sent the report to my boss, apparently," Dean ad-libbed quickly, keeping his expression neutral. "Said he'd be out here."

Curiosity satisfied, Hamilton pulled out a map of the park, the roads marked in blue, the hiking trails marked in red. Smoothing down the creases, he tapped the mountain with a fingertip.

"That's Hoodoo."

Dean looked at it. "That a fire trail?"

Hamilton nodded. "NF-366. Yeah, that'll take you closest. Still be a hike. Two, three miles to the summit, longer around the flank."

"Did the reporter go in that way?"

"I don't think so, think he went from Route 20 to Trout Lake," Hamilton said slowly, his finger tracing over the road to the long finger lake at the mountains foot. "I didn't talk to him, my partner did. Took Trout Lake Road to the end of the lake then hiked in that way."

What had his father known that he didn't, Dean wondered? Or was that why he'd been taken, going in the wrong way?

"Where was the bus found?"

"Here," Hamilton pointed to the map, his finger over Sherman-Pass Scenic Byway where the road crossed a deep ravine. "Shouldn't even have been there, you know. No reason for the school bus to be there."

Dean heard the deep sorrow that underlaid the ranger's words. It was a small town and to lose twenty nine children in one accident had wounded the inhabitants badly. That they couldn't find the bodies had added more anguish.

"That looks steep," he said, frowning at the contours.

"Yeah, near sheer that drop. Had a big storm and the coroner thinks the kids were washed down to the lake, that's why we couldn't find them." He drew in a deep breath. "That's bull. Ravine's so tangled with fallen timber and growth we'd have found something."

"What do you think happened?" Dean lifted his head to look at the ranger's face.

Pete Hamilton's eyes filled with tears as he shook his head. "I don't know. They weren't there, I was there straight after it happened, went right down to the bus. There was water and it was moving fast, but we should have found something. Something," he said, his breath catching in little jerks. He looked at Dean. "My cousin went missing in 1970, fishing with his dad up at Trout Lake. Uncle Cole never stopped looking for him either, but he never found anything."

Dean looked at him, the small-town armour of keeping one's business to oneself falling away under the ranger's bewilderment. He wouldn't find out much more in the town itself, he thought. One or two going missing, even unfound for so many years could be accepted. But twenty nine kids, twenty nine families losing their children, that couldn't be explained away.

"Something's there," Hamilton ducked his head, wiping hard at his face. "I know that sounds crazy, and I don't know what it is or what it could be, but something's out there."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I believe you."

He folded the map and tucked it into his pocket and turned away, pushing through the glass door of the office and walking back to the car. Something was there alright. Why would it start to get greedy after over a hundred years of just taking what it needed discreetly? He wondered if his father had thought about that.

* * *

He ate lunch at the diner in town and bought food at the small supermarket, visiting the drugstore on the way back to the motel to restock the first aid kit in the car. He'd drive up tonight, sleep in the car on the closest bend to the peak and head out at dawn. It was two or three miles from the fire trail around the side of the mountain to the southern flank, and none of the satellite photos that Jim had been able to download showed any signs of habitation there. But the woods along the lower slope and down to the two lakes were dense and anything could be in them. It was a better idea to not follow his Dad's trail into the area, he thought. He might've been prepared or he might not have been, there was no way to tell, but he hadn't come back to the town.

Parking next to the black truck, he took his gear into his father's room, spending the afternoon cleaning the guns, sharpening the edge of the iron blade Jim had given him, practising drawing the trap and memorising the symbols that surrounded the circle and filled its centre. At seven, he walked down to the town's butcher, turning off the main street and cutting up the delivery lane at the rear, opening the rear gate and back entrance and taking a bucket of blood from the fridge.

* * *

By nine, the car was packed, the blood in a cooler in the trunk and he headed up the 395 north, the headlights picking out the mile markers easily, the road empty. The fire trail began nearly eight miles out of town, and he turned left onto it, slowing down on the loose dirt and gravel. The road had been graded recently, the new gravel piled at the sides, but a couple of storms and most of that work was undone. The bend was fourteen miles from the turnoff and he kept an eye on the trip counter as he eased the black car over the ruts and around the pot holes.

Pulling over onto the side of the road at the apex of the bend, he was glad to see there was plenty of room to get right off and parked next to the trees. Behind the mountain, the loom of the rising moon cast a little light, not enough to see by, enough to make out the outlines of the trees and the open area of the road.

He pulled out his flashlight, grabbing the blanket from the back seat, then turned the light off and stretched out along the front seat.

In the darkness and silence, every thought was loud. He'd been careful not to think about his father, careful to do his job as if there was nothing hanging on it. He frowned suddenly. How had his father's truck gotten back to the motel? It was a long way to hike out to the lake. Dad would've driven, left the truck out there. He hadn't really questioned the truck being at the motel when he'd first seen it. But someone had to have driven it back. The … witch? Demon? Whatever the hell it was? It didn't seem all that likely. An accomplice? Who the fuck would help a witch? The idea was bothering him the longer he thought about it. If there were two of them, it explained his father's being taken by surprise.

Between Jim's descriptions and the fact that this … thing, with or without someone or something helping it, had gotten the drop on John Winchester, he wondered how the hell he was going to take it down. He would. He had to. There was no other option. He closed his eyes and pushed the crowding thoughts away, visualising the Impala's engine and the modifications he wanted to make on it when they settled down somewhere for a while again.

* * *

Dean woke to darkness, and rolled over, angling his head to look up and out through the car window. A very faint light let him see the outline of the mountain to the east. His watch confirmed it. Just before first light. He sat up, tossing the blanket onto the back seat and opened the door, sliding out. Opening the trunk he settled Jim's iron knife through his belt and put the Colt automatic into his jacket pocket, adding extra magazines to the other pocket. He poured out the blood into four smaller bottles, and put them into a small day pack, along with the trap design, the small medic kit, salt, two bags of goofer dust and a bag of iron filings. It didn't weigh much when he slung it over his shoulder.

He could see the trees, he realised, looking around. That was light enough. He closed the trunk and tucked the keys into his jeans pocket, walking around the car and into the woods. There was a compass in the car, but the amount of iron he carried with him would have screwed it up anyway. Traversing the first gentle slope, he headed south and east by the light appearing ahead of him, gradually brightening the sky as the sun rose incrementally behind the mountains.

Living here, you wouldn't want to be too far from a source of clean water. There were a lot of thick woods along the lake shores. A lot of places that people wouldn't go necessarily, and the summer spotter planes that kept watch on the forests, wouldn't be able to see through.

Moving along through the forest, Dean was very aware that he was alone. No back up. No second pair of eyes, ears, hands to help out. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. In some ways it was isolating, making his nerves twitch and jump with every sound, every shadow or shape in the dimness surrounding him.

But, he admitted, he was also enjoying it. There was, at this moment, no one he had to feel responsibility for. No one he had to take orders from. That was exhilarating. It wasn't the first time he'd worked solo, but it was the first time that it was so important he got it right. Before, all the other times, if he'd screwed up, it would've just been his death. His father and brother would have been fine. This time his father was dependent on him doing the job perfectly to get out alive (_if he was still alive_) and Sam was dependent on him getting both of them out and back safe.

He could do it. He'd been in training for this moment since he was six years old, he thought. Training himself to move in complete silence. Training himself to react in a split second. Training himself to be ready for whatever happened, to turn surprises into advantages, turn obstacles into assets, turn problems into solutions. It was what he did. It was what he loved.

As the sun rose higher he caught glimpses of darkness below, the long, narrow lake held in the crevice between the mountain and the lower hills on the other side. He slowed down, keeping to the thicker patches of undergrowth. What warning systems would be in place to warn the witch of an intruder, he wondered? What range would they be from the lair? His father's notes said 'caves'. Were there caves, tucked out of sight amongst the trees under the mountain?

He stopped as he picked up a new scent, faint and drifting to him on the barely-there breeze that sighed up the mountain side. Smoke.

He sank down to the thick mat of needles and leaves that filled the ground between the trees and let his pack slip from his shoulder, reaching into it for the glasses as he felt the direction of the breeze and turned his face into it. Lifting the binoculars, he adjusted the focus and slowly scanned along the line of the air movement, the smell of the burning wood stronger now. There was no visible smoke rising from the slope but as he adjusted the glasses further, he could make out the wavery shimmer above a section of rocks, a little under half a mile away, closer to the lake.

_Yahtzee_.

Caves. And a dry, aged wood fire. And his father so close now (_not dead_).

He got to his feet and started moving again, placing his feet with painstaking care, walking steadily across the slope until he reached the point a couple of hundred yards above the shimmer over the rock and stopped.

The noise of a distant engine broke the early morning silence, chugging behind and above him. On the fire trail, he thought distractedly. He listened to it, lifting the binoculars to his eyes again as he searched the ground below him for any indication of an entrance – front or back.

The engine stopped and he lowered the glasses, listening intently. Whoever it was had seen the car. At this time of morning, it was probably one of the rangers. He would be damned pissed if he came back up this hill and found her gone. A faint crackle from higher up made him suck in a breath with a hiss. Goddammit, he did not need a ranger to come down here now.

He looked around, assessing his options. Whoever it was would be coming down faster than he had, moving without thought for silence and with significantly more light. He looked downslope, at the heat shimmer. He'd have to wait for them, he realised. He couldn't afford to have someone else blundering around here while he was trying to kill it and get his father out. It would be one variable too many. If it was Hamilton, he probably could be counted on to sit tight and keep watch.

Shifting his position, he crouched down in the cover of a thick clump of undergrowth, keeping the glasses on the hillside below him, waiting without impatience for the ranger to get to him.

The snap of branches underfoot, the slur of shrubs being pushed aside, the slithery hiss of pine needles against each other gave him plenty of warning of the person moving down the mountain behind him. He turned his head slowly, looking through the foliage that surrounded him, as the sunlight caught a flash of gold from a blonde head, bright against the darkness of the tree trunks and greenery. _Crap_.

That was one ranger he didn't need. He watched her come down the slope, moving awkwardly over the slippery ground and debated internally whether to show himself or let her go by. Wandering aimlessly anywhere in the area would be worse, he knew. He stood up, seeing her double-take as if he'd appeared from thin air, the bright blue eyes narrowing slightly then widening as her mouth opened.

He was across the ten feet separating them in an eyeblink, his hand over her mouth as he pulled back between the trees and forced her to the ground.

"You have to be silent. There's something here, something that can hear us, maybe see us if we're not careful," he said, his mouth against her ear. "If I let go, can you stay quiet?"

She tried to use her weight against his grip and his arm tightened around her, fingers biting down into the skin on her face. She stilled and after a moment, nodded.

Lifting his fingers, he left the palm against her cheek in case she changed her mind. She stayed silent and he let her go, shifting back onto his heels.

He tapped the ground between them and she looked down uncomprehendingly. He tried again, pointing at her and tapping the ground and she looked back at him and nodded reluctantly. He gave her a half-smile and rose to his feet, turning away and starting down to skirt the rock where the heat shimmer danced like a ghost.

The dark opening of the cave mouth appeared as he rounded the bulge of rock, and he drifted across to it. The entrance wasn't large, maybe six foot high by nine feet wide, and as he inched closer, it seemed to be shallow, no more than six feet deep. It wasn't until he'd reached the edge that he saw a second opening, to one side. That was black. He didn't hear her. It was the prickling of the nerves on the back of his neck that gave him the warning. He dove forward and sideways, rolling onto his back and springing from the shoulders onto his feet as he watched Marty slam the big rock through the space where his head had been.

She'd overbalanced, too sure of the hit, and he strode forward, hand closing tight around her upper arm and pulling her further forward, his knee lifting and hitting her chin hard enough to snap her teeth together. He kept his hold and swung her around into the cave opening, against the rock wall. The back of her head smacked into the stone and she sagged slightly against the smooth rock. Dean jammed his forearm under her jaw and pinned her to the wall, reaching behind him for the iron knife.

For a second she stood still, panting heavily, then she lifted her head as his fingers found the hilt, and her eyes met his, no longer cornflower-blue but a virulent dark red, her mouth stretched into a wide, crocodilian smile. She shoved back at him, nails ripping through his jacket and shirt as he pulled the knife clear and he was thrown backwards as she disappeared into the blackness of the cave's real mouth.

_Shit!_

Jumping to his feet, he raced after her, the knife held in one hand, the fingers of the other scrabbling at his pocket for the flashlight. It came on, the beam familiar and powerful enough to dispel the darkness and show him a twisting tunnel, heading downwards.

He could hear the slap of her boots on the grainy tunnel floor, echoing through the narrow space, gaining distance as she moved faster than he was. She had to be the witch – demon – whatever, he thought as he walked fast after her. The strength she'd used against him hadn't been human. Looked pretty good for three thousand years.

_Good place for a trap_, he thought vaguely and stopped abruptly in the tunnel. He had enough blood to make at least two traps. Kneeling, he shone the flashlight down on the ground, and pulled the pack off, digging out the bottles and opening the first. The trap wasn't large, but it filled the floor of the tunnel completely, curving up slightly on the rough rock walls to either side. He checked what he'd drawn against the design twice then stepped across it, careful not to step on the edges or the symbols that marked them. Door number one was officially closed.

_Not going to help if there a dozen other ways out of here_, his father's voice said in his mind. He pushed the thought away irritably. He'd been planning on doing a detailed recce of the situation before the cute ranger-witch-demon had shown up. Now he was running with what he could do to nail the situation down to something manageable.

The sound of running feet had disappeared and he slowed down then stopped again, listening. He couldn't hear anything at first. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to shut out his thoughts, block out his other senses and just hear.

Somewhere, far below, he thought there was a rushing noise, water maybe through the rock. Closer, and ahead he could hear something else – a faint pinging, repetitive, oddly demanding. He opened his eyes and started to walk down the tunnel again.

Dean stopped again when he noticed he could see ahead. He flicked off the flashlight and moved slowly forward, firelight flickering against the far edges of the curving stone wall. The bend was pronounced and he hesitated this side of it, dropping to the tunnel floor and looking around the corner from ground level.

The cave opened up into a large circular room, roughly made furniture around the smooth walls, the floor covered in piles of coins, books, rugs, jewels, artefacts, statues, baskets, boxes, chests … Dean stared as the firelight played over the rich colours and shone from the metals, dragging his gaze from the Aladdin's treasure to look around the rest of the room. To one side a huge chair, carved from a single stone, sat against the wall. The shrunken, withered figure seated in it seemed to be bound, head lolling forward, hands curled into wizened claws with long black fingernails, one hand lifting and falling, lifting and falling, the source of the repititious pinging noise. Turning his head to the right, he saw his father and froze.

John was sprawled in another huge chair, also carved from stone, opposite the tiny figure. Dean swallowed as he saw the dead white skin, the veins visible beneath, a fine tracery of blue and purple. He was bound to the chair, his head resting against his shoulder, leaning against the arm of the chair. His eyes were open a little, but blank, seeing nothing.

At four other points in the smooth cave walls, other openings were irregular circles of black. Dean got to his feet silently and moved into the room, the iron knife ready in his hand.

Nothing moved but the flames in the open hearth. The room was warm and still and quiet and he looked down at his feet as his boots slid over the coins and papers that littered the floor. _Crappy footing if she does come back_, he thought distantly, moving more quickly to his father. He could see the bonds, fine silver chains that were looped around John's chest and arms, around his neck and waist and hips and legs, holding him against the stone seat like cobwebs. He reached out with the knife tip and slid it under one of the strands, jerking back against the silver, unsurprised when the fine links refused to break.

The figure on the other side was held the same way, he thought. Was it the original witch-demon? Was the demon still bound inside that withered frame? Or had the demon found Marty and decided to trade up for the younger, prettier version? He picked his way across the unstable piles of stuff to the other chair.

He couldn't see any signs of life in the shrunken creature in front of him. No pulse beat at the hollow of the throat. There was no rise and fall in the ribcage. He reached out cautiously, and curled his fingers around the wrinkled and dark skin, feeling the thin, parchment texture of it, dried out and stiff over the underlying bones.

The witch lifted her head suddenly, golden-grey eyes snapping open as she looked at him, and he started back, dropping her arm and slipping on the pile of rough-cut jewels behind him.

"Son …" the ancient voice breathed. He took another step back, throwing a fast glance over his shoulder to see if his father had woken. John's eyes were open a little more widely, but he couldn't see any other change.

"Kill …" the word drifted out on a pungent gasp of breath, musty and spicy and underlaid with the odour he associated with decomposition in hot, old houses.

He looked back at his father, seeing that his lips had parted slightly. Was his father controlling this ancient thing? He lifted the iron blade and took a wary step toward the witch.

"Trap …"

_For who? For him? For the witch? For the new witch-demon? For his Dad? For who?_ Anxiety pounded through him and he lowered the knife and slid it through his belt, pulling the pack off and opening it, hand reaching in and grabbing the second bottle of blood. In front of the stone chair, he pushed and brushed and swept the treasure aside, making the trap circle big enough that a stride couldn't carry over it. He looked around the rest of the room. Too many openings. He pulled out the bags of salt and goofer dust and iron filings and spread the lines of the mixed elements over the thresholds. Theoretically at least, that should hold even the most powerful demon back for a time.

Returning to the stone chair, he drew and lifted the knife again, angling it to penetrate the narrow chest. Then he thrust it in. Again the witch-demon's eyes snapped open, and he could see something struggling inside of them. He pulled the knife out and stared down at the figure.

_The iron dissolves the connection between human soul and demon_. Jim'd said. He pushed the knife back in and reached out for the silver chains holding the witch to the chain, yanking back on them with all his strength. They snapped easily, falling away, the witch with the iron blade still embedded fell forward out of the chair and into the trap painted in blood on the floor in front of it.

The shriek was unexpected and painfully loud in the small space. He fell away, dropping to one knee as it grew louder and higher, the glass pieces on the shelves starting to smash as the pitch matched the frequency of the glass, sends sprays of splinters and shards across the room. He lifted his arm, shielding his eyes, watching the witch darken further as if the flesh was burning and charring from the inside out.

When the scream stopped, his ears were ringing and his knife, Jim's knife, lay in a pile of charred bones and ash in the middle of the trap.

"NO!"

Dean spun around at the raw shout. Marty stood in the closest cave opening, up against the edge of the line he'd laid down, staring at the ash pile on the floor then lifting her gaze to him, eyes completely red now. He picked up the knife and scrambled back across the mounds and heaps to his father, instinctively using the iron blade again under the chains and this time watching them fall free with a light tug. John collapsed out of the chair into Dean's arms, eyes closed now, but dragging in ragged deep breaths, one after another, as if he hadn't drawn breath in days.

Dean looked back at the opening where Marty had been, his brows drawing together sharply as he saw that she'd gone.

"Come on, Dad, we've gotta get out of here," he muttered, pulling his father's arm over his shoulder and lifting him to his feet. John remained unresponsive, and Dean swore softly, twisting himself under his father's ribs and straightening up, John's dead weight over his shoulder. He glanced back at the black openings in the cave, threw a regretful glance at the wealth that covered the floor and staggered back toward the tunnel he'd come in through.

_Better hope this place only has one way in or out_, he thought, his breath rasping in his throat as he carried his father's heavier body up the narrow confines of rock. Or this was going to be a real short trip.

He heard a noise behind him and slowed, half-turning and looking back. A shadow moved against the fading light on the stone wall and he gritted his teeth, turning back and starting to run. _Where the hell was the trap? This bend or the next one?_ He slowed again, shoulders and arm flexing as he let go of his father with one hand to find the flashlight in his pocket. His fingertips touched the smooth round cylinder and he pulled it out, snapping it on and reaching up to get a better grip on John as he staggered forward again.

"My sacrifice, my life!"

The voice didn't sound at all like the young woman's now, deeper and rougher and long on the sibilants, echoing along the tunnel and drowning out the sounds of footsteps behind him. He flicked the beam of the flashlight over the walls and floor of the tunnel, seeing nothing but rock, and swore again, trying to increase his speed.

"Not leaving!"

Dean clenched his jaw against the impulse to look behind him, the voice sounding so close now. He was running, sort of, an uncoordinated half-run, half-stumble over the uneven surface, his imagination filling his mind with images of the witch right behind him goading him on.

"MINE!"

The voice screamed from behind him, and he doubled his efforts as he careered around the bend, barely noticing the blood on the floor in front of him, seeing it as he'd reached it, taking a longer stride to avoid the edges, spots dancing in his vision and his shoulders and neck and back agonised from the long, unsteady run with the weight unevenly over one side.

"NO!"

He stopped and turned. The witch was in the trap, fists beating against the air, nails splitting and tearing as they scratched against the walls of the circle futilely.

Stepping to the wall, he sank to his knees and eased John's body down to the floor, leaning him up against the rock face. He shone the flashlight back over the witch. She turned to him, lips drawn back from teeth that seemed to be blackening. Dean took a step forward, his hand closing around the hilt of the knife and drawing it out.

"So, what's your story?" he asked, taking another step forward. "Where's Marty?"

The demon snarled at him, throwing itself bodily at the walls of air that kept it bound, rebounding from the impact to the floor. When it looked up, the red had gone from the eyes, but they weren't blue, he saw, they were almost golden, a golden-grey.

"Marty's in here … somewhere," the witch said, prowling around the limits of the trap, turning her head to keep her gaze fixed on his face. "There's a price for everything and sometimes you don't find out how high the price is until it's too late."

Dean snorted derisively. "You trying to say you didn't know what the cost of slow-dancing with a demon was gonna be?"

The young woman's face stretched out in a wide smile. "It wouldn't matter whether I knew or didn't, would it? The cost is the cost is the cost."

"Where are the kids?" He didn't know if any of them were still alive.

"Down in the dark," the witch said, shrugging. "They still live, most of them. No need to be greedy."

"What was the thing in the chair?"

"That was me. The old me," the witch answered, rushing to the side of the trap and pressing herself against it. "I moved on. And then that man came sniffing around."

She looked at John, and Dean held down the surge of fury and hatred that erupted in his chest at the mixed avarice and hunger in her expression.

"Call yourself a hunter, don't you?" the witch looked into his eyes, hers crinkling up in amusement. "You don't even know how much you don't know."

"I got time," he said casually, looking past her for a moment. Her gaze cut away, involuntarily following his, and he stepped forward and thrust the iron blade between her ribs.

For a moment, she stood there, looking down at the blood metal hilt protruding from her body. Then she looked up at him, her eyes cornflower-blue again.

"You still have to kill the demon," she said softly, voice husky and raw, her eyes moving from his face to his father. "He has it, I saw it. She didn't take it because she thought he'd be dead before now, she couldn't touch it directly."

"Marty? Has what? What does he have?" Dean looked from her to John and back. "What?"

"It's on him, you have to hurry," she said, her eyes rolling back into her skull as her knees sagged and gave way.

Dean turned around and went to his father, hands searching his pockets, easing him flat on the floor. He found the small bag and pulled it free, looking down at it. "This?"

Marty lay on the ground, panting heavily. "Yes, in my mouth, hurry, hurry, _hurry_."

He looked at her cautiously then stepped over the edge of the trap and crouched over her. Her irises were becoming murky, grey-blue-gold-blue and he realised why she'd told him to hurry. Prising open her mouth, he pushed the small leather bag inside as deeply as he could reach.

The explosion threw him backwards, out of the trap and onto the tunnel floor, his head smacking against the unyielding rock, making his vision dance with sparkling spots.

Inside the trap the witch was rising, under the skin glowing, coloured light pulsed and throbbed and shot from one end of her body to the other, an interior lightning show in shades of vermilion and amber, gold and chromate and cadmium, carnelian and alizarin and madder. Dean raised his arm, shading his eyes as the writhing, shifting light grew brighter and brighter and she rose higher and higher. He crawled to his father's side when she reached the roof of the tunnel, shielding him instinctively.

He'd expected another explosion. He watched in astonishment as the body folded and curved and pulled in on itself, becoming smaller and blacker until it disappeared completely.

"Awesome."

He looked down at his father. John was breathing naturally, and he could see his pulse against the side of his neck, beating steadily. His skin was still white, the blood vessels still visible beneath it. He wondered uneasily if that would go, once he got him out of here.

He felt like three miles of bad road, but there was a hell of a lot more to do before he could considered himself finished. He got to his feet and pulled his father over his shoulder again, this time able to find a better balance point, and turned up the tunnel.

* * *

When he reached the fire trail he was ready to die, he thought, easing John into the back seat and closing the door gently. There was no way he could get them all out in the car. Marty's Parks and Services truck was still parked behind him and he walked over to it, feeling as if he were floating above the ground with the removal of his father's weight from his back. He opened the door and leaned in, flicking on the radio and picking up the mike.

"Ranger Hamilton?" he said, releasing the button to listen for a response. "Calling Ranger Hamilton from NF-366."

"Ranger Hamilton here, who is this?" The ranger's voice was clear.

"Special Agent Hammett, Ranger," Dean said, leaning back against the seat. "I'm ten miles up NF-366 and have found one of your trucks, empty. I've also found some of the missing children – alive."

"WHAT!?" Hamilton's shocked voice burst from the speakers and Dean winced, turning the volume down.

"I need help. Get ambulances and whoever else you need up here as soon as possible."

"Got it," Hamilton's voice had returned to normal tones. "Hammett, they're alive?"

Dean closed his eyes at the hope in his voice. "Roger that, Hamilton. Some of them, I don't know which ones. Just get your people here. Out."

He put the mike back on its stand and looked around the truck interior, grabbing the bottle of water from the centre console and unscrewing the lid, taking a deep swallow then returning to the Impala. He opened the back door and knelt beside his father, tipping a little water into his mouth. He watched as the swallowing reflex kicked in and tipped a little more in. John's eyelids stuttered then opened.

"Hey," Dean said softly.

"H-h-h-ey," John coughed as the word scratched up his throat. Dean offered the water again, and this time his father took a reasonable swallow. "What – what the hell, Dean?"

He grinned. "Long story. I'll fill you in later. I've some more to do first."

John nodded uncertainly, looking around the interior of the car disorientedly.

* * *

It took Dean another hour to carry up the first two children, four more of them staggering and stumbling beside him, small fists clenched in the hem of his jacket. Hamilton pulled up as he got them into the ranger's truck, finding another couple of bottles of water in the cooler in the back.

He led the paramedics and police down the mountain and came back up again, the men carrying all of the children this time, their faces still and white with shock at what they'd seen down in the caves.

Hamilton walked to the black car and leaned on the roof, looking inside. "I don't know how to thank you," he said to Dean.

John looked over the seat at his son, watching the characteristic duck of his head, the slight shake negating the implication of something owed by the ranger.

"Make sure none of the others die," Dean said finally, looking back at Hamilton.

"Got that straight." Hamilton looked at John then back to Dean. "Look, a lot of the parents are really going to want to thank you personally for what you've done. Are you going to be sticking around for a bit?"

Dean looked at him and smiled. "Sure, a couple of days at least."

"Good," Hamilton nodded in relief. "I'll see you around then."

"Yeah."

John looked at Dean when the ranger had left. "Think I'll be able to drive the truck?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Getting better. I need something to eat," John said prosaically. "Colville's only four miles down the 395, could probably spend the night there?"

"Sounds good." Dean turned back to the wheel. "Get comfortable, the road's a bitch."

* * *

_**I-90 E, North Dakota**_

Dean shifted uncomfortably around in the driver's seat, his arms and shoulders and back and legs still aching from the efforts of the previous two days.

They'd spent the first night in Colville and had driven down to Missoula the following day, finding a cheap and anonymous motel on the outskirts of the city and spending two days just sleeping and eating and easing the aches and pains of over-taxed muscles in hot showers as often as the reheating of the hot water allowed.

His father looked almost back to normal, a huge relief since he'd been imagining his brother's expression if Sam'd had to see him as he'd looked at first. He'd rung Jim from Colville and John had spent ten minutes reassuring both Jim and Sam that he was fine before exhaustion had started making him sound like he wasn't.

Another six or seven hours and he could relax, he thought tiredly. He hadn't thought of what had happened, what he'd done, what he'd seen since they'd left Kettle Falls. His father had kept looking at him, in the motel in Missoula, his face full of some emotion that neither of them knew how to deal with, really. He'd understood the feelings behind it – he'd felt them himself. Relief. A difficult and throat-closing joy that they'd both made it out alive. The deep satisfaction of finding the children alive and knowing that they'd recover, physically anyway. Shock. Anger. And of course, fear. All of the usual suspects, present and accounted for. John had finally muttered something to the effect that he'd done a good job and had left it at that.

He liked getting recognition for things he did well. Or at least, he realised, he liked the idea of it. The whole-podium-first-second-third-place thing, with him standing on the highest bit, some pretty girl putting the medal around his neck while he checked out her cleavage. It was a nice fantasy. It was different in real life. He didn't want the attention, didn't want to see the awe and emotion and tears in people's eyes when he was doing his job. He looked at the road and eased off the accelerator a little as the truck ahead of him dropped back as well.

The job had gone sideways in the middle and that happened from time to time. He thought he'd done the best that he could, thought of everything he'd needed to. He'd gotten them out, everyone who'd still been alive. And he'd killed that demon. Trapped it and killed it and done it on his own.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw, feeling the itch of the stubble. There were times when he loved to hunt alone, he thought. But there were times when he didn't. Which wasn't an issue now, particularly. An uneasy feeling rose in his gut – uneasy because of Sammy. He didn't think he could keep Sam close. Not for much longer.

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana 2010**_

Dean leaned back in the chair. He'd forgotten about that hunt. It had been a turning point for him, he thought. He'd felt really in the groove after that one. At least until the ghosts in White Rock. And his father taking off and leaving him to deal on his own. Had that been why he'd been afraid to hunt solo later on? Because he could've killed his brother, trying to get him to the hospital, trying to get rid of the ghosts, watching his brother's blood run out of him. That hideous bubbling noise in Sam's chest that he still had nightmares about sometimes. The way his skin had turned to mauve under the bright white lights at the hospital.

Maybe. He'd been wrong then, blaming his father for leaving. The load was the load. It didn't get better until you got used to the idea that it was yours to carry. He snorted softly, swallowing a mouthful of whiskey.

_I spent so much time worrying about the son of a bitch. I mean, I've had more fun with you in the past twenty-four hours than I've had with Sam in years, and you're not that much fun. It's funny, you know, I've been so chained to my family, but now that I'm alone, hell, I'm happy._

His words came back to him in a rush, along with memories of the archangel, and the hooker and Cas' face when he'd taken the wad of notes. Had he really felt like that? Once?

It'd been a month earlier that he'd run into Ellie in Manhattan. And just after that Zachariah gave him the sneak-peek into the year 2014, pushing him to rejoin Sam.

He looked down at the glass. He might've been able to do it once. He didn't think he could any more. Once, being alone had been being free. Now it was … what? He wasn't sure. He didn't want it. Didn't want to look into a motel mirror one day and see an old man, face etched with lines of bitterness, of loneliness and pain and grief with nothing to look forward to and nothing to go back to.

He tipped the rest of the whiskey into his mouth and swallowed it down, the warmth taking the chill from his thoughts. Outside thunder rumbled in the distance and he looked at the windows. The thunder brought another memory. Before Manhattan he'd been upstate. Thunder rumbled again, and he saw the flash of lightning behind the curtains. That'd been a summer of storms too, he remembered. The motel he'd been staying in had been shaking when the thunder had talked and the lightning had walked, and in the middle of it Rufus had called him on his cell, oblivious to the fact that he could have been fried if the lightning had hit any …


	5. Chapter 5 Nothing But Time

**Chapter 5 Nothing But Time**

* * *

_**August, 2009. Gloversville, New York**_

…any closer and he'd seriously think about sleeping in the car overnight, Dean thought, looking through the open curtains at the lightning strikes that were dotting the landscape, so many so quickly that they were strobing the night. Thunderstorms were common here in the summer but this seemed to be a little more … biblical, he thought uneasily. He walked to the window and closed the curtain, looking up as a rumble of thunder shook the walls and light-fitting, the low-register frequency vibrating in his teeth.

_Great idea, staying here for the night_, he told himself sourly. The job had looked interesting when he'd picked up the paper in Albany last week. Family murdered in the house thirty years ago. Local teenagers dying. Blah blah. Turned out that it had been one ghost who was buried in the town's only boneyard. Not much of a challenge, but he was still stiff and sore from the digging and the storm was wrecking every idea he'd had about what to do for the evening.

He turned around as his cell rang, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and searching through the pockets.

"What?"

"Nice manners," Rufus remarked derisively on the other end of the line.

Dean smiled and sat down. "Yeah, I'm working my way up to sounding like you."

"Gotta long way to go 'fore you reach my level of expertise, kid."

"You call for a reason?" Dean asked, looking at the window. "I'm kind of busy."

"Busy with what? Bobby said you took that ghost," Rufus' voice was drowned in crackling static and Dean held the phone at arm's length, looking at it nervously as another boom of thunder shook the motel.

"… the fuck was that?"

"Thunderstorm, right over me," Dean said.

"You shouldn't be on a phone in a storm, kid."

"You think?" Dean snorted. "Whaddaya want, Rufus?"

"Need your help. I'm up in Fort Ann, 149."

"You need … my help?" Dean asked slowly. "For what?"

"Not sure. But it looks like it might angel-related and, uh, Bobby said you got some experience with angels."

Dean closed his eyes. _Angels_. Again. He'd just got done with angels.

"Dean? You still there?"

"Yeah. Okay. I'll see you in the morning," he said. "Where're you staying?"

"Fort Ann Inn." Static crackled over his voice again and Dean whipped the phone away as he saw the flashes behind the curtain, followed by an ozone-laden _CRACK!_ just outside. He dropped the phone and strode to the window, looking at the smoking patch of grass on the other side of the parking lot.

Turning around, he picked the phone, looking at the black screen. Everything was out, the hit had fried anything with an electrical circuit within range, he realised. He opened his bag and pulled out his backup cell, putting the battery back in, turning it on. The screen lit up and he turned it off again. He hoped the car's electrics were okay. He'd unplugged everything from the battery when he'd realised how big the storm was going to be but that didn't always help when the discharge field was big.

Well, he thought resignedly, turning to the bed, he needed to catch on sleep. He stripped his clothes off and dumped them beside the bed, pulling back the covers as thunder reverberated through the walls and floor, the bed's frame and his skull.

He could already tell it was gonna be a restful night.

* * *

_**NY-29 E**_

Dean stood by the gas pump, looking at the _Out of Order_ sign taped to it morosely. From the pump, he could see the _Closed_ sign on the glass door as well. He was tired, eyes grainy from lack of sleep, muscles sore from the previous days' labours, brain dragging from lack of caffeine and his car needed filling up.

He'd left Gloverville early, bypassed the promise of a hot breakfast and coffee and a full gas tank thinking he could get at least two out of three on the way, and now this. Surrounding him, the mild, balmy air, brilliantly blue sky and bucolic countryside made a mockery of his experiences of the last twenty-four hours.

He got back into the black car, looking fixedly at the fuel gauge. There'd be another fuel shop further up, he thought, starting the engine.

* * *

He was walking back along the highway, the fuel can weighing him down on one side, when his backup phone rang.

"Yeah?"

"Improvement on 'what' at least," Rufus' voice filled his ear, sounding … well rested, fed and cheerful. "Where're you?"

Dean sighed, looking along the road. "About four miles past Gloverville."

"What, you sleep in this morning?"

Dean let that go. He'd already made it past anger, frustration and depression, somewhere in the last three miles of walking. He was in a place where nothing further could get him riled.

"How long you gonna be?" Rufus said after a moment of silence.

He tilted his head slightly. He had another two miles to get back to the car, he thought. Then he was going to stop at the next place he saw to get something to eat. And fill the tank. And drink about a gallon of coffee.

"'Nother couple of hours," he said tiredly.

"Back when I was your age –"

Dean closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, shifting the can to his other hand.

* * *

_**Fort Ann, New York**_

The Impala growled into the small parking lot of the Fort Ann Inn at eleven fifteen, Dean turning off the engine and tipping his head back as silence filled the car. The sharp rap on the window beside him made him jump and he opened his eyes resentfully to look into a seamed dark face, bright white teeth framed by a grizzled salt-and-pepper beard, dark eyes fixed on him.

"I'm coming," he muttered, hooking his duffle and pulling out the keys as Rufus opened the door.

"'Bout time," Rufus said by way of greeting. "Got you the room next to mine."

Dean nodded, walking around to the trunk to get the gear bag, and taking the key from the older man as he passed him.

The room, tastefully decorated in shades of ochre and puke-green, looked … wonderful, he thought. The bed beckoned, the shower invited, the coffee maker enticed him.

"Dump your stuff, and come and have a look at this," Rufus said behind him, and he walked in, dumping the bags at the foot of the bed and turning around to follow Rufus out reluctantly.

_See what he's got_, he told himself, straightening up as he walked into the room next door.

On the table, the counter and the low table in front of the short sofa, files, books, notes and papers had been spread out, and Rufus had already taken the liberty of taping a map to the wall beside the bathroom, photos and coloured string suggesting a pattern.

Dean looked around, hoping that he'd get pointed to someplace to start. "Want to give me the summary?"

Rufus went to the coffee pot and poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Dean.

"Got a call from a friend about some weird deaths around here last week," he said, pushing papers to one side of the table and sitting down. Dean did the same, feeling the strong, hot coffee begin to work as he listened.

"Five deaths so far, in a ten mile radius from here," Rufus continued, gesturing vaguely at the map behind him. "The deaths have been reported by the coroner as heart attacks, but I talked to him and there was no reason for heart failure, all their pumps were healthy – hell, better than mine. All of 'em had a mark on the foreheads," he said, pulling out a set of glossy photos from the file at his elbow and pushing them across the table. Dean picked the first up and looked at it. It was a head-shot, and showed the burned-in symbol on the victim's forehead clearly, a concoction of straight lines intersected with small circles. _Enochian_, he thought.

He flicked through the rest. The same symbol was on all of the victims, same placement, same depth of burn. He looked back to Rufus.

"You think an angel's killing these people?"

Rufus shrugged uncomfortably. "In Revelations, there's a section where they come down and mark those who are supposed to survive the Apocalypse, spare 'em from the Horsemen."

He gestured to the Bible, sitting on the low table. "We got signs and omens for the end of days, but it seems unlikely that the mark's supposed to kill 'em."

Dean looked down at files. "When was the first death?"

"Five weeks ago. One a week since," Rufus said, finishing his coffee. "Bobby said you could help with finding out if it was an angel."

Dean grimaced. "Cas is off finding God. I can't get in touch with him."

"Huh. These deaths, they don't strike me as being particularly angelic."

"Don't kid yourself," Dean said, looking at him with a sour expression. "Angels aren't what their press makes them out to be."

"Uh-huh. Have a look at the rest of the police photos." Rufus got up and took his cup to the sink, turning and leaning against it.

Dean looked through the crime-scene photos. Close by each body, a word had been painted in a dark liquid. On the bedroom wall of the first victim, it was '_harlot'_. The second victim had been found in the bathroom of her home, and the word was '_adulterer'_. He flicked through the other three. _Idolater_. _Thief_. _Liar_.

"This isn't anything to do with the signs and omens for the Apocalypse," Dean said, looking up at Rufus.

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that. You got some free time to put in on this?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, looking over the papers in front of him. "Sure."

* * *

The morgue was in the local funeral home, and the imbued smells of chemicals stung Dean's nose and eyes as he looked at the last victim's body. He lifted his head, squinting at Rufus.

"You see a switch for an exhaust fan anywhere around here?"

Rufus looked around, and walked to the door, hitting a couple of switches. The whirring noise of the fans recessed into the ceilings started up, and after a few minutes, Dean's eyes stopped watering and he could see what he was doing again.

The woman on the stainless steel table had been in her late twenties, Caucasian, blonde hair, grey eyes, five foot seven inches tall, weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds. Employed, single, no religious denomination … absolutely nothing jumped out as he read the coroner's report. Cause of death – heart failure. Reason: unknown.

He picked up the magnifying glass and walked down to her feet, going over the body inch by inch.

"What are you looking for?" Rufus asked, watching him curiously. Dean shook his head.

"I don't know," he said distractedly. "Something that shouldn't be there."

Her hands had been bagged when she'd been found, and the adhesive still clung to her wrists. He looked at her fingernails, seeing the curved scraping where the medical examiner had taken what had been under them. He lifted her hand and turned it over, and a faint but familiar smell hit him. Leaning over her hand, he sniffed. Sulphur. Faint, but there.

"You see any sulphur at the homes?"

Rufus shook his head. "No, didn't smell it either."

Dean straightened as Bilkins, the funeral home director walked into the room, looking at him.

"You won't be too much longer?" Mr Bilkins asked nervously. "I've just had a call that we need to pick up a body."

Rufus glanced at Dean, eyes narrowing. "Another one like this?"

Mr Bilkins looked at him, nodding. "I believe so."

"Mr Bilkins, do you use sulphur in here? For preparing the bodies?" Dean asked, looking at the palm of the hand again.

The man frowned. "Not directly. We sometimes use sulphuric acid if the body has been in the water – it reddens the flesh – but not for a body like that one."

"Did you find any traces of, uh, powdered sulphur on any of the bodies?"

"There was a smell of sulphur, very faintly on two of the bodies – I did the preliminary reports before Dr Abermann arrived. I couldn't see any signs of sulphur contamination, however." He looked at the body on the table. "And of course, we wash the bodies before the autopsy, once the preliminary examinations are complete."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Uh, okay, we're done here."

"We'll follow you to the next pick-up, Mr Bilkins."

Bilkins nodded and picked up the intercom handset by the door. "Sally? Get Fraser down to the preparation room and tell him to put Ms Andrews back in the cold room, please."

He turned back to them. "The police are there now, I got the call ten minutes ago."

"Any details?" Rufus followed him out of the room.

"Afro-American male, twenty years old approximately, the same mark on his forehead," Bilkins said over his shoulder.

* * *

The neighbourhood that Clarence Williams had lived in was clean and quiet. Mature trees lined the sidewalks, the houses were small and plain, but every front yard had a well-kept garden and the cars parked along the kerb and in the driveways were recent models, Dean noted automatically as he followed the funeral home's hearse down the street.

They ducked under the crime-scene tape and showed their badges to the local police, following Bilkins through the house to the back bedroom. The room held a lingering trace odour of sulphur, Dean thought as he walked in. One wall of the room had been cleared, the furniture pushed aside. A single word had been written across it, the dark red liquid had run from the letters. _Matricide_. Dean stared at it then glanced back at Rufus.

"You want the body or the house?"

"I'll take the body," Rufus said, following the mortician. Dean nodded and peeled away, walking to the windows. One was open an inch, and he looked at the sill, bending closer as he caught the smear of pale yellow on the white painted woodwork. He looked at the frame carefully, seeing another faint smear near the catch.

"Dean."

Rufus' voice was very quiet and he turned and went to the body, crouching beside it. On the forehead was the same Enochian as the others. Rufus reached out and turned the young man's head to the side slightly. Against the smooth dark skin behind the ear, another smear of yellow.

Dean rocked back on his heels, looking at the older man. "Traces on the window as well."

"What the hell?"

He shrugged. He looked back at the burn on the forehead. This one wasn't as crisp as the others, he thought, doubling over to look closely at it. One side was almost blurred, as if the young man had moved as he was touched. He caught a very faint bitter smell and shifted, leaning on one hand as he sniffed at the skin surrounding the burn.

"You a bloodhound, Agent?"

Dean twisted around, looking up at the big cop standing behind him. The man was six foot three or four, broad-shoulders strained at seams of the white shirt he wore, his face slab-like, the features almost lost in the largeness of it. Small, dark eyes stared down at him, and he pushed back off his hand, turning and rising.

"Just doing our job, Detective," he said mildly. Behind him, he could hear Rufus getting to his feet.

"Now, Hank, leave it alone. We're all working together here." Another man came into the room, several years older, his face impassive as he laid a hand on Hank's arm lightly.

"FBI have no jurisdiction in this case, Tom," Hank muttered, staring at Dean.

"Not exactly true, Detective," Rufus said quietly. "There were two deaths, in Ohio, similar to these six months ago. We're checking into it because you might have a serial in your town."

Dean kept his face expressionless, as Hank's gaze flicked past him to Rufus.

"That so."

"It is," Rufus agreed steadily.

"Come on, Hank, we've got footprints outside the house, and a bunch of people to interview," Tom said uneasily, glancing at Dean. "Leave the forensic evidence to these guys."

Hank looked back at Dean narrowly then slowly turned away. The other detective watched him go through the door and looked back to Dean and Rufus. "Sorry, he's gotten kind of religious in the last few months, has it in his head that there's more at work here than just a human killer."

Dean's brows rose. "Kind of left field for a cop, isn't it? What does he think is killing these people?"

Tom shrugged slightly, looking back to the door. "He thinks it's an angel."

Rufus snorted. "An angel?"

Tom's face became stony. "He's a good cop. Just lost his wife at the beginning of the year and he's trying to find a way past it. We kept the theory quiet – I expect you to do the same."

"Detective, look, we're not here to torpedo anyone's theories, but why an angel?" Dean asked.

Tom looked down at the floor. "He was in the cruiser, the night the first one died. He responded to the nine-one-one and … he said saw the angel leaving."

Dean frowned. Angels didn't walk into or out of places. They appeared, they disappeared, usually at the most inconvenient moments. "Did he have a description?"

Tom looked around the room, and pointed to a print hanging on the wall next to the wardrobe. "That's about it."

Dean and Rufus turned to look at the picture. It depicted a man, in a long, white robe, with long golden hair flowing down over his shoulders and back, and enormous white wings spread out behind him. Above the man's head was a glowing, golden halo. At his feet, a man was sprawled on the ground, head bowed and arm covering his face.

"Huh," Rufus said. Tom looked back at him, scowling.

"Don't say anything."

Dean shook his head. "Who'd we tell?"

* * *

They finished up when the mortician had packed the body into the hearse and followed the long black car back to the funeral home.

"Alright, let's get it out," Rufus said, leaning back in the passenger seat.

"Well, angels don't look like that when they're on this plane," Dean said dryly. "They need a vessel, same as demons. Can't be any old meatsuit either. Has to be someone devout, someone who gives their consent."

"So we can strike the angels?" Rufus closed his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean glanced at him and back to the road. "Then there's sulphur. And that mark, on the latest vic – it looked – and smelled – like a brand."

"What'd you smell?"

"Aftertaste of hot iron."

Rufus straightened up. "Someone made up a regular iron brand to do this?"

"That's what it looks like," Dean said.

"So … human? Or demon?"

"I don't know." He rubbed a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. "A human might be pretending to be an angel – but why leave sulphur? A demon could probably leave an Enochian brand on a person's body – but they wouldn't need an old-fashioned steer iron to do it. And they can't handle it anyway."

"Man, I love the kinky ones," Rufus sighed.

Dean snorted. "Was there anything like that picture in the homes of the other vics?"

Rufus closed his eyes. "The first one, had some stuff. Crucifixes, that kind of thing. I didn't see the home of vic two. Nada on three and four. I think the old man might've had a picture of Christ." He opened his eyes and looked at Dean. "Why?"

"Just wondering if there was a connection," Dean said, turning on the engine and pulling out.

* * *

The black car rumbled into the parking lot and pulled up next to Rufus' pickup. Dean turned the key and the engine fell silent. They sat there, listening to the tick of the metal cooling for a moment.

"I need a shower, food, and a beer," Dean said, his nose wrinkling up slightly at the scent of formaldehyde that was wafting off him after four hours in the morgue, examining the body and watching the autopsy.

"Yeah, you stink," Rufus agreed.

"I can see how you get your dates, man, that charm …" Dean shook his head.

Rufus laughed. "Don't you worry about my love life, son, it's still kicking." He opened the door and got out, leaning back in. "Twenty minutes. There's a good place to eat and get that beer down the street."

Dean nodded and opened his door, shutting it and locking the car. He walked into the room and pulled off his tie, shedding the jacket, shirt and pants quickly on the way to the bathroom. The smell might dissipate if he steamed the damned suit, he thought, shoving the clothes onto hangers and hanging them from the end of the shower rail.

_Human or demon_, he wondered, lathering the soap in his hand, and sluicing the unlovely embalming smells from his skin. Why would a demon take the trouble to pretend to be an angel? Demons were pretty simple, they liked to torture and kill and they didn't try to justify their actions at all.

Whatever this was, they were trying to make the deaths look like the work of a vengeful angel. Why?

Or maybe they weren't, he thought, straightening up under the hot spray. Maybe whoever or whatever it was really thought they were the instrument for … what? … retribution? God's punishment? He closed his eyes, turning into the water. He needed to know what that symbol meant.

He emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, releasing a billowing cloud of steam into the room and shutting the door. The suit had smelled marginally better, it might be okay by morning. Pulling out his laptop, he set it on the table and plugged it in, opening it and drying himself as he waited for it to start up.

There were a surprising number of references to Enochian on the net, including a codex of sorts for some of the language. Scanning through the images, he'd scrolled through two pages worth before he realised it was going to a while to get it. He looked at the screen for a moment, then typed in another query.

The results came almost immediately and were all consistent for once. Gabriel, the Angel of Death, was the archangel responsible for punishing certain sinners on earth, specifically he could choose to kill those who'd committed a mortal sin; and his sigil was exactly like the one that had been burned into the foreheads of the victims.

He was reasonably sure it wasn't the archangel killing these people. Angels didn't leave sulphur around.

He pulled on clean clothes and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him. Rufus' door opened at the same time, and they walked up the street.

* * *

The bar and grill was quiet mid-week, and they found a booth at the back, well away from the bar and tables and other customers, ordering food and beers straight away.

Dean looked around slowly. The décor was Adirondack, simple woven blankets and rough, unfinished timbers and record-breaking fish mounted on the walls. About a dozen people were in there, a few at the bar, having a drink and watching a political debate on the wall-hung television set. The rest, mainly couples, sharing a meal at the small tables. A banner hanging limply above the bar advertised Happy Hour with two dollar margaritas Every! Single! Day!

The waitress brought their beers over and he tipped up the bottle, swallowing a mouthful.

"Our … whatever it is … thinks they're the Angel of Death," he said quietly to Rufus, watching the older man's brows shoot up.

"_The_ Angel of Death?"

"Gabriel." He clarified.

"Yeah, man, I know who the Angel of Death is," Rufus said peevishly, riffling through his mind for the little he knew of the Catholic angelology. "Played the trumpet to bring the faithful home, didn't he?"

"That's the one," Dean agreed, hiding the smile with another mouthful of beer. "But one of his main jobs was to smite people who'd done something particularly heinous on earth. Specifically, committed a mortal sin."

"Huh." Rufus opened the canvas satchel he'd brought, pulling out a slim file. "'Cos I thought that the victims seemed too random so I dug a bit deeper on them."

He pushed the file across the table to Dean. Flipping it open, Dean looked at victim one, a Mrs Mary-Ann Smythe from Granville, east of Fort Ann. Fifty eight years old, married for thirty years. Husband deceased. Lived off a small pension. He looked up at Rufus, one brow lifted.

"I'm not seeing it."

Rufus smiled and gestured at the file. "A bit further."

Dean looked down the page. Two children born within the marriage … and one born six years earlier. Given up for adoption at birth. He looked back at the other hunter.

"Harlot was on the wall of this one, wasn't it?"

Rufus nodded. "As I recall."

"Having a kid on your own isn't exactly a hanging offence anymore."

"Unless you happen to be the kid who was farmed out," Rufus shrugged.

"You know who the kid is?"

Rufus shook his head. "I've got a contact in the department but I haven't got the paperwork yet. I figure that this kid might have beef with being given up by his mother."

"A bit much having a gripe for your mom having sex before marriage when it resulted in your life, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but people who kill other people aren't often rational."

"True, why the others then?" Dean asked, looking down at the report.

"Yeah, I got nothing." Rufus shrugged.

"It's pretty thin."

"Yeah," Rufus agreed readily. "But our killer has got a religious fixation, and that comes under the general heading of mortal sin."

Dean looked at him thoughtfully. "You think this is really one for the cops?"

"If it weren't for the sulphur, I'd have said yeah," Rufus said. "But the sulphur puts it on us. Anyway, look at vic two."

Dean closed the file and moved it aside as the waitress came up with their orders. She smiled and put his burger in front of him, setting the cutlery to either side of the plate, a sideways glance as she leaned in to adjust the fork giving him a close look at dark brown eyes, wide with interest. He smiled and as she moved back, caught sight of Rufus' shoulders shaking silently on the other side of the table.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, hovering beside him. He shook his head, catching sight of a slim gold band on her left hand.

"I'm good, thanks … uh," he hesitated, gaze flickering over her chest as he looked for a name tag.

"Donna," she supplied.

"Donna."

"Okay then, just let me know if you want anything else," she smiled again and turned away, hips swinging as she headed back to the service area.

Rufus' laughter became audible and Dean scowled at him. "What?"

"Nothin'," he said, leaning back in the chair. "Guess I'll know where to find you later."

"We're working," Dean said, taking a bite of his burger. "And," he added, tucking the bite into his cheek, "she's married."

"Didn't seem to worry her," Rufus looked at him.

"Yeah, well … no." Dean looked down at his burger, relieved when he heard Rufus pick up his flatware. He didn't have that many scruples when it came to the opposite sex but that was one of them.

He felt a faint prickle up the back of his neck and stopped chewing, looking around the room. It took two passes, but he saw the detective finally, hunched over a small table on the other side of the long room. He let his gaze drift over him and looked back at Rufus.

"Our friendly detective is here, scoping us out," he said.

Rufus shrugged. "Some cops just hate the feds, and if he put anything down about seeing angels in a report, he's probably got a lot of reasons to right about now."

Dean nodded, wiping his fingers on the serviette and pushing the plate aside. He pulled the file back and opened it again, flipping to the next victim. Mrs Gina Atley, age thirty … he skimmed down her details, stopping when he hit the listed next of kin.

"This right? The second victim was the detective's wife?"

Rufus looked up. "Yeah, he found her at home."

"What was her sin?" Dean turned over the page and read through the police report, looking at the crime-scene photo again. "Adultery. Why the hell is Detective Atley working the case? Isn't that a conflict of interest or emotional burden or something?"

"In a bigger town, I guess they'd take him off," Rufus said, shrugging. "They don't have that many detectives here."

"Explains the attitude," Dean murmured, frowning as he reached the end of the report.

"Yeah. We need to confirm these so-called sins, you know." The older man leaned back and pushed his plate aside, looking at the file. "I got a list of friends and neighbours, thought we'd go ask them tomorrow."

Dean chewed on the side of his lip and turned over to the next victim. Ronald Tennyson had been fifteen years old, a junior at the local high school, some trouble with the law although the sheet was all nickel-and-dime stuff. Found in a lane by a woman who was taking out her trash.

"Ronald seems a little young to have committed a mortal sin?" He looked at the crime-scene photograph. _Idolater_ had been painted on the wall of the brick building opposite.

"Idolater?"

"'_Thou shalt have no other gods before me'_," Rufus quoted. "I had a look at the kid's bedroom. More or less a shrine to some pop group. Not sure if that qualifies, though."

"Jesus, I hope not – that puts half the population at risk." Dean rubbed his jaw as he flipped over to the fourth victim.

"The one we saw at the funeral home," Rufus leaned over, reading the report upside-down.

The word for Fredrika Andrews had been thief. He looked at the photos, remembering the body on the stainless steel table. Shoplifting? He looked at her details. Ah … teller at the First & National over in Glen Falls. He'd give the bank a call in the morning, see what they had to say.

None of it was making much sense. They might have done the things they'd been accused of, but so had millions of other people. Why had these people been chosen to die?

The fifth victim had been Harold Trent. Seventy-eight years old, lived on his own, went to church every Sunday and visited the nursing home residents every Tuesday. Dean sighed. _Liar_. What the hell could the old man have lied about that had gotten his ass targeted by this nut? Or demon.

"This is bullshit, Rufus," he said, looking across the table.

"Yeah, no argument –"

He stopped as Donna returned to the table and picked up their empty plates. "Hope everything was good?"

"Yeah, fine. Thanks," Dean said, closing the file hurriedly.

"Anything else?"

Rufus glanced at Dean, then looked at her. "Bottle of whiskey, two glasses. Thanks."

Donna looked uncertainly at him, then pasted a smile on and turned away. Dean shot a sideways look at her and looked back to Rufus.

"You want to get tanked?"

"No. I want to leave this alone for a little while," Rufus said quietly. "Just think about something else and let the pieces sort themselves out."

Dean lifted a brow. "That works?"

"Always has."

* * *

"Yeah, we stayed with Bobby on and off for years," Dean said, looking into his glass. "Till Dad had a falling out with him, anyway."

"Yeah," Rufus leaned back in the chair, looking at him over the rim of the glass. "I remember Bobby sayin' something about that. Your old man had a temper."

Dean's mouth twisted up to one side. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Bobby too," Rufus said quietly. "We used to hunt together a lot."

"What happened?"

Rufus finished the whiskey in his glass and poured another. "Falling out. It happens."

Dean looked at him. "Usually a reason."

"Usually is," Rufus agreed, expression fading from his face as he looked at the younger man. "Some things are best left alone."

"I hear that," Dean muttered, tipping his glass up. "But you and Bobby, you're okay now?"

Rufus gave him a rueful smile. "Life's too short to hold a grudge."

Dean put the empty glass on the table. It was. It was hard to get past the pain of lost trust, of betrayal though.

"Not many kids raised in this life, you know," Rufus said, leaning forward to refill the empty glass.

Dean looked down into the deep amber liquid. "Just as well."

"You didn't want to be hunter?"

He looked up, mouth stretching to one side humourlessly. "I didn't have a choice. I didn't know there was anything else for years." He shrugged. "I grew up wanting to do what my Dad did. Wanting to be like him."

"Now you don't?"

Dean looked away. "I don't know."

"Then you should get out, while you got time to do something else," Rufus said quietly.

"You don't think this is worth it? What we do?"

"I do, yeah. But anyone who has doubts has no business doing it," Rufus leaned forward. "You can't do this with your head screwed up. It'll kill you. And probably kill anyone working with you."

Dean was silent for a long moment and Rufus watched him, saw him come to a decision.

"What'd Bobby tell you about the – about everything – me and Sam – Lucifer – the Apocalypse?"

"A bit," Rufus admitted cautiously.

"He tell you me and Sam started it? Broke the seals to the devil's cage?" Dean leaned toward him, his voice low and harsh as he stared at the older man. "Tell you that we're the vessels for Lucifer and Michael? That Heaven's been chasing us across the country? That Cas had to tag us so that we can't be seen by the angels?"

He watched the older man's eyes widen slightly and got his answers. "It's not like I can quit, Rufus. Not now. Maybe not ever. Sam –" he caught his breath and swallowed. He couldn't tell him about his brother. The man was one of a very few he did trust, but there was too much to tell now, too much that was raw.

"We're at the centre of all this crap. And quitting's not an available option," he said, tossing the contents of his glass down as he straightened up.

Rufus lifted the bottle and refilled Dean's glass when it hit the table again. He put the bottle down slowly. It explained a lot about the kid, he thought, the look that was forever in the back of the green eyes, a look that said that the load was too heavy, that he didn't know how long he'd be able to carry it before he dropped it. The protectiveness of his brother, raised into this life but destined to play out a much larger role than any other hunter couldn't even have conceived of. Bobby had told him bits, over the years, when he'd been loaded and needing someone else to know about his pain in watching the brothers grow up and become trapped. Pieces fit together, the history became clearer.

Dean was staring at the table top, his head bowed, hunched over his fear and doubt and despair like a miser hoarding his gold.

He was a good hunter because he felt everything, Rufus thought, looking at him. But feeling everything would burn him out in time, burn out his upbringing, his feelings and eventually his humanity, if he didn't recognise what was happening. Despite those open wounds that were visible to anyone with eyes, he knew Dean couldn't – or wouldn't – talk about it. Couldn't be that vulnerable. None of them could. Too many scars, too many weak spots in the walls they held around themselves. Too many memories that shouldn't have been there. He drew in a deep, silent breath.

"Guess we'd better focus on what we can do, then," he said quietly, pushing the glass closer to Dean.

He saw a shudder ripple through the young man's frame, then Dean lifted his head, fingers curling around the glass.

"Yeah, that's the plan," he said bleakly.

* * *

In the morning, they divided up the list of people they needed to see, and headed out separately. Dean worked his way through the friends, neighbours and co-workers of Atley, Tennyson and Andrews, while Rufus dug deeper into Smythe, Trent and the latest victim, Clarence Williams.

It was six o'clock before they made it back to the motel and by mutual agreement they met an hour later at the bar and grill to discuss what they'd found.

Dean sat down at the booth they'd had the previous evening, looking around when he realised he'd beaten Rufus here. He picked out Atley, sitting at the same table in the same corner he'd taken the night before. Tonight his partner was with him.

Donna smiled widely when she saw him sitting alone and came over to the booth, holding out the menu and setting a glass of water down on the table.

"Back again?"

"Can't stay away," he agreed lightly. "Just the same as last night, burger and fries. And a beer."

"Sure thing," she said softly, leaning on the table. "You and your friend going to have another drinking session tonight?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Maybe we could do something after my shift, then?" she suggested casually.

He looked down at the table for a moment, then back to her, smiling slightly to take the edge from his words. "I don't think so."

Donna pouted a little, opening her mouth to ask why, when Rufus walked up to the booth. She straightened hurriedly and flounced off. Looking after her, Dean's face screwed up on one side.

"I don't think the service is going to be quite as good tonight."

Rufus followed his gaze and laughed. "You tell her you're not interested?"

"Yeah."

"Life's full of disappointments."

Dean looked at him. "And how."

"But not from me," Rufus added cheerfully, putting a file on the table. "What'd you get?"

"According to Mrs Atley's friend, she was friendly with a guy at the library, but there was no way it went beyond that. They'd only moved to the town a couple of months before," he said, flipping open his notes and looking through them. "The kid's parents got divorced a few months ago, and his mom went a bit off the rails. He was arrested for, uh, disturbing the peace at the church a week before he was killed." Dean looked up at Rufus. "Apparently yelled at the padre that God was dead."

Rufus winced slightly. "That might've done it. Who was the arresting officer?"

Dean frowned. "Didn't get that."

"Doesn't matter, what else?"

"Andrews was a bank teller in Glen Falls. She had the idea she could skim the till." Dean shook his head. "The bank didn't make a big deal of it. Called the cops but didn't press charges and fired her."

He stopped as a different waitress came up to the table and set their orders in front of them, giving him a curious look as she left.

"Well, my contact at the DSS came through. Mary-Anne Smythe's baby went to Cyril and Helen Atley, in White Plains." Rufus took a bite of his burger, looking over at Dean.

"The detective?" Dean glanced across the room at the man.

"The very same," Rufus said, swallowing his food. "And Henry James Atley had no idea he was adopted till Helen Atley died about a year ago."

Dean looked down at his food, frowning. "So Atley finds out he's adopted, wrestles with it for a while and then … what? Comes upstate and murders his real mother, then starts in on the rest of the people in the town?"

"Yeah, that's where it gets tricky." Rufus shrugged. "Atley had a beef with Trent. The old man filed a complaint against him for conduct against one of the residents of the home he visited. He also had a run-in with the latest vic, Williams. Stopped him one night on his way back from his part-time job and messed him up a little. No charges, but the kid apparently lost his cookies on him."

"What?"

Rufus shook his head. "Off the record, the cop he was riding with said Atley hit the kid and Williams puked all over him."

"There's a solid reason to gank him," Dean said disbelievingly. "A bit of an over-reaction."

"Just a bit."

"What's about the comment on the wall? Matricide?"

"Williams' mother died in childbirth." Rufus wiped his mouth and pushed his plate aside. "Atley's reaching. And I'm guessing that his name will probably be on the arrest reports of the other two as well."

Dean stared at him. "You think he's possessed? Demons don't need excuses to kill people; they don't worry about the meatsuit's plausible deniability."

"Only one way to find out," Rufus looked at him with a half-smile.

* * *

Dean flipped on the light of the room and closed the door behind him. How could Atley be possessed and maintain business as usual … as a cop, for cryin' out loud? Something stirred in his memory and he sat on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes.

There had been a demon. The memory was right on the edge of his mind, tantalising with its sense of familiarity. His face screwed up as he tried to force it closer. It'd been … when? Sam had been there. And … a woman? It faded back into the black and he shook his head tiredly.

_Sleep on it_, he thought. _It'll come back_.

He got up and went to the bathroom, turning the tap on and splashing the cold water over his face. He turned off the tap, and reached for the towel, and in the silence of the room he heard a very soft click.

The door to the room, he thought, reaching for the knife at the back of his belt and drawing it. The bathroom door was half-closed, and he stepped back behind it, looking obliquely into the mirror, which showed some of the room. He saw a shadow move across the far wall.

He came out of the bathroom fast, turning and lunging toward the big man who stood near the wall, the knife blade winking as it swung downward. The demon was faster.

It raised a hand and he was lifted, feeling the knife wrenched from his hand as he hit the outer wall of the room, the blow mostly taken on shoulders and back, and crashed to the floor, landing on his hands and knees. He looked up at Atley walked toward him, an empty grin on his face, his eyes black from corner to corner.

"Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe!" The voice was Atley's, but deeper, the timbre richer.

"Do I know you?" Dean pushed himself upright, leaning back against the wall.

"Well, you do … but you might not remember the details. I understand that to you people, we all look alike," the demon said with a chuckle. "We spent some quality time together down below."

Dean stared at him. _Down below_.

Atley's face tightened suddenly, scrunching up as if in pain. When he opened his eyes, the irises were grey again, bloodshot and yellowed around the corners.

"Adulterer."

Dean's brows shot up. "What?"

The man pulled a short length of thick bar from his pocket, and Dean saw the Enochian symbol on the end of branding iron. Atley squeezed the bar tightly and the iron symbol began to glow yellow, deepening to red.

_How the hell could a demon hold iron? How the hell could a human make it heat up like that? What the fuck was going on here?_ He shifted sideways and Atley raised his hand, making a fist. Dean felt himself crushed, pressed flat against the wall, his arms held tightly to his sides. He could feel the heat radiating off the bar as the detective came closer to him, the metal glowing white in the centre now, and his eyes followed the movement helplessly as it rose toward him.

Atley stepped backwards, and the rod fell to the floor with a hiss as the hot metal seared and melted the synthetic carpet, then set it on fire. The man's face was contorted again, seeming to bulge with an internal struggle. Dean felt the pressure around him loosen and he ran for his knife, lying close to the end of the bed.

"Not so fast," the demon's voice came from behind him. "Sorry about the temporary glitch in this evening's programming, we're having some technical issues."

He was held again, flat to the floor this time, hands and arms and legs pinned down so that he couldn't move a muscle.

"I believe we'll be taking our time with you, Dean," the demon said with a chuckle. "And we've got so much time."

He felt fingers close around his neck and his vision began to waver, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he struggled against the grip, grey mist crowding around the edges.

* * *

Dean came to in a bare room with concrete floors, walls and ceiling. He tried to move and felt sharp pricks along his arms and legs, looking down and seeing that he'd been bound to the chair with loops of barbed wire, the incautious movement resulting in pinpricks of blood that seeped through his sleeves and jeans where the barbs had penetrated.

His throat felt sore but undamaged. _Sleeper hold_, he thought vaguely, not cutting off his air, but the blood supply to his brain. He looked around. It looked like a car-park, thick square concrete pillars supporting the low roof, which was riddled with narrow gauge pipes bracketed to the concrete above him. Office building basement, maybe? He twisted as much as he could to look behind him. More of the same. He could see the far wall, but it was at least thirty yards away. He couldn't see a door anywhere.

The memory he'd been searching for came back, whole and intact. Up in Idaho, the demon who'd used his vessel to become a serial killer. Jeffrey. _Great_, he told himself sarcastically, _very useful to have that information now_.

_Was that what was going on here? The demon letting the meatsuit choose the victims and play out some kind of religious fantasy with them?_ It hadn't looked exactly like that when Atley had somehow taken control – the man had been using the demon's power then, to heat the iron. The demon had had to fight to get control back.

_Even better_, he thought acerbically.

The soft shur of a footstep snapped his head around, and he felt the barbs dig a little deeper into his forearms.

"Awake, finally." Atley walked out of the shadows. "Now we can get down to business."

"You don't have much control over that meatsuit," Dean said, looking at him.

Atley laughed, but behind the forced chuckle Dean could see wariness.

"Just some teething problems," the demon said airily, waving a hand in a vague gesture. "I found him in White Plains and it turns out he was pretty much over the abyss already."

"And he's stronger than you are?"

Atley's face twisted into a scowl. "No. And lucky for you."

"Lucky? Oh yeah, I should buy a lottery ticket," Dean remarked caustically, looking down at his bonds.

"Well, you're not dead with the brand of one of Heaven's most blood-thirsty angels burned into your face."

Dean looked at him. "How can he touch the iron with you inside?"

The demon turned away with a bitter look. "That's – I – he's got some defective wiring."

_Defective wiring?_ So he was stronger than the demon, at least some of the time. Dean wondered how much control the demon really had. _Enough to hold off an exorcism?_

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis_ –"

Atley turned back and this time the laugh was genuine, booming from the walls.

"You'll wear out your throat before that works on me," it crowed, holding up one arm and rolling up the sleeve. Above the elbow, a deep, burned brand was livid against the pale skin. A circle with a bar through one side.

_Binding link_. Dean recognised it immediately.

"So, Dean, what have you been up to since Hell?" Atley walked over to the pillar and picked up an aluminium baseball bat leaning against the side. "Let's talk about Alastair and what it's been like without him."

* * *

He drifted in and out of consciousness, warm stickiness on his face and down his neck, on his arms and legs. When the room swam into partial focus again, he felt pain, throbbing and stabbing and aching right through. The demon hadn't broken much yet, he thought, grasping for clarity, for memory. He looked up as the man's shadow fell across him, the bright blue flame of the small blow-torch throwing the thick, craggy features into relief, a tiny reflection of the flame in the black eyes.

The explosion was loud, but he reacted slowly to it, watching the torch fall to the floor instead, hearing multiple shots fired and echoing around the hard concrete walls. There was a lot of movement down the other end of the room for just Rufus, he thought confusedly.

"Just hold him!"

He heard Rufus roar, then there was a scream and a deep bellow from Atley. Looking down he saw that the wire had gone. Had the demon done that? Or Atley during a moment of control? He pushed himself up, sucking in a fast breath between his teeth as his body shook with agony. Closing his eyes, he pushed harder, and made it to his feet, staggering slowly to where the torch was still hissing softly.

He picked it up and swept it around, watching the hot flame char the surface of the concrete.

"Rufus?" _Damn, that wasn't very loud_, he thought incoherently. "Rufus!"

"Dean, where are you?" Rufus yelled back, relief evident in his voice. "Here … NO!"

Sound of boots running. He looked up and saw Atley burst from the shadows, running straight for him, irises grey again and fury distorting his face into a mask that seemed more demonic than the demon had been.

He leaned against the back of the chair, and watched as Atley crossed the side of the circle without looking down. He rebounded off the other side of the trap and fell to his back, surprise wiping the fury completely.

"Watch where you're going," Dean mumbled, bending down cautiously to pick up the blow-torch. "Always … watch where … you're … going."

He stumbled away from the support of the chair, putting his feet down slowly and deliberately as he walked to the edge of the circle. Atley stared up at him, sweat pouring off his face, staining his shirt, his eyes stretched out wide, filled with confusion.

_Tough ride_, Dean thought. _Demons … and demons. Nothing but time when you're all filled up with demons_.

He dropped to his knees next to the detective, hissing with the fresh lances of pain that arced through his legs and hips and back, lifting the torch and edging closer as Atley skittered away from him.

"Just take a minute," he slurred, blinking fast as the grey mists crowded in again. "Just a minute."

The flame hit the man's shirt and burned through it in a second, the flesh beneath sizzling as the binding link was broken, the skin bubbling and the muscle under it smoking and turning brown, the room filling with the stench of cooking meat and the high-pitched shrieks of the detective.

Dean dropped the torch and looked at the man, seeing the black return to the eye sockets.

"Didn't catch your name, but not important," he said, still kneeling, swaying a little back and forth now.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis!_"

Rufus staggered out of the shadows as Atley opened his mouth, watching the thick stream of smoke coil and twist to the ceiling and disappear. He looked down at Dean, catching the man's one-sided grin as Dean toppled to the side and passed out. In the circle Atley lay dead, a dozen holes in his chest and abdomen leaking blood. He pressed his hand tightly against the hole to one side of his own torso, and yelled back over his shoulder. "Get an ambulance!"

* * *

Dean walked stiffly down the hospital steps, glancing at Rufus who was walking beside him, wincing as he hit each step with his left foot.

"You gonna make it to the car, old man?"

Rufus snorted. "You gonna be able to drive the car when we get there?"

Dean smiled. "I can always drive the car."

"Hmmpf."

They made it to the kerb and Dean opened the door for Rufus, looking away as the hunter eased himself carefully into the seat. Rufus had lost bits of a couple of organs from the bullet Atley had fired at him, but he wouldn't appreciate anyone noticing.

He walked around to the driver's side and got in, his muscles protesting at the unaccustomed position but still obeying him. The beating had been more of a mental shock than a physical one, the demon bruising pretty much everything, a couple of fractures here and there, but no major breaks. It'd been serious about taking its time, Dean thought, relieved that it'd miscalculated how much it would get.

He didn't remember much of the conversation. Something about Hell. Another thing to stuff down deep and cover up as much as he could. What was one more nightmare, anyway?

"So Atley was bent to begin with, but finding out that he was adopted left him open to the demon?" Rufus broke through the thoughts and he nodded.

"Yeah, demon said he'd been reading some crap in the Bible about avenging angels and so on, made it easy to get him started. Apparently he didn't realise that the demon was there at all, just thought they were his thoughts, and that God had given him the power to kill."

"But he had to have the brand made up special?" Rufus asked, mouth twisting up at the incongruity.

Dean shrugged. "I guess that was the easiest thing to rationalise."

"Yeah," Rufus said, turning slowly to look at the young hunter beside him. "Are you okay – I mean –"

Dean flicked a glance at him. "You mean did it scramble my brain as well?"

"Well, uh …," Rufus hedged, glancing away.

"I don't remember what it said, mostly," Dean said lightly. "Don't even remember much of what happened after I woke up in the chair."

Rufus looked back at him doubtfully. "Well, that's a good thing … I guess?"

"Yeah."

He pulled into the motel's parking lot. Bobby stood beside Rufus' truck, cap pulled down low over his forehead and the fleeting look of relief wiped away by a scowl.

Dean turned off the engine, but didn't get out. Bobby'd take Rufus back to his place, and Rufus'd probably fill him in on what had happened. He didn't want to do a post-mortem of the last few days. Didn't want to see Bobby's concern and worry at the back of his eyes every time he looked at him.

He looked at Rufus, who hadn't moved. "What?"

"Listen …," Rufus started to say then stopped. "You might not be able to get out, but you can fight it."

Dean looked down at the wheel, exhaling.

"Dean," Rufus said softly.

He looked up, turning to look at the man beside him. "Take care of yourself, Rufus. I'll see you around."

Rufus hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Bobby walked over to the car and opened the door, ignoring Rufus' protests as he helped him out. He dropped the brown paper bag onto the seat next to Dean with a wink.

Dean watched them hobble to the pickup, and Rufus climb slowly in. He picked up the bag and opened the top, pulling the bottle inside part of the way out. Blue Label. The grin came naturally, lighting his eyes as he looked down at it for a moment, then let it slip back inside the bag.

* * *

_**I-87 S, New York**_

Did he want to be hunter? The thought kept coming back to him. It wasn't that there was a choice, he told himself, but did he want it?

The last couple of months had been different. No Heaven or Hell chasing him. No responsibilities to anyone other than himself. No brother. He caught the thought in surprise, shaking his head slightly. He'd said it to Cas. Not having to worry about Sam, not thinking constantly of his brother, not having to hide what he felt, or lie, or pretend to think one thing when he really thought another … that had all felt pretty damned good. He did the job better. He felt better.

He was good at what he did, he knew that. He saw it in the eyes of the men he worked with. Felt it inside of himself. And it still mattered to him, he acknowledged slowly. Still mattered that taking that demon out had saved people's lives. And the vampire before that.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel. It didn't change what was happening now. Didn't help with the fact that he and Sam were trapped in a vast web and couldn't get out, couldn't get away from it. They might be able to fight it, he might be able to fight against Michael and deny the angel his vessel for the showdown with Lucifer, but even if he did, he didn't think Sam would be able resist Lucifer. And then what? Let the devil destroy the planet? Wipe out everyone?

He'd been wrong about family. About his family. They weren't stronger together. They were weaker. Their enemies had seen it and used it against them time after time. Sam was his weakness. And, he thought tiredly, he was Sam's. It was better to stay apart, far, far apart so that they couldn't be used, either of them.

_Except that there was nowhere they could go that was far enough to get away from what was coming_, the voice in his mind said very quietly. He pushed the thought away and put his foot down on the pedal, the car accelerating smoothly. There was a job in Manhattan. Looked like it might be a crocotta in Central Park. He would do what he was good at. Until something or someone came for him.

The car roared up the interstate, the tyres thrumming loudly over the concrete, the seams making a beat that wound through his mind and body, and he reached over and pulled out a tape from the box on the seat, flipping over the cover one handed and pushing it into …


	6. Chapter 6 Wanting Normal

**Chapter 6 Wanting Normal**

* * *

_**January 22, 2008. Spencer, Iowa**_

"Dean, behind you!" Sam swung the pump action up and Dean dropped and rolled to one side as the gunshot thundered around the small, stone-lined basement.

"Gone?" He looked up, wiping dust and cobwebs from his face.

"For now," Sam said uneasily, staring around the room. "I can't see the bones."

"They're here," Dean muttered, rolling to his feet. "Wouldn't be getting this much company if they weren't."

He lifted the flashlight and played the beam over the walls and floor again. It wasn't a big room, maybe twenty feet in one direction, no more than fifteen in the other. And it looked empty, filled with dust and fine cobwebs that were strung from the low ceiling to the roughly hewn stone blocks of the walls.

They both felt the temperature plummet and lifted the barrels of their shotguns, automatically moving together, back to back, and turning slowly, their flashlights lying along the gun barrels, the lights playing over the room.

"There!" Sam stopped and Dean glanced over his shoulder.

In the oblique line of the light, two of the big stone blocks were jutting out, their shadows showing the difference in their depth clearly.

They crabbed to the wall, and Dean put down his gun, feeling his brother move behind him, covering him as he wrestled the first block out. The gun boomed again and he felt a trickle of sweat down his neck, trying to pull the stone out faster as he heard the soft click of shells, Sam trying to load the pump again.

Letting go as it came free, he jumped back a little and shone the flashlight into the hole. They were there, a jumbled pile of yellowing bones, three skeletons shoved into the wall together. He reached in and swore silently when he realised he needed to get the other stone out as well, there wasn't enough room for him to reach them with the salt.

"They're here, Sammy, just keep them off me a couple of minutes longer," he panted, muscles bulging over arms and shoulders and back as he took the weight of the second block and shifted it toward him, swinging it from side to side.

Sam looked at the white crystals coming from his mouth with each exhale and shivered. Until now, they'd only had to deal with one at a time, he had the feeling that all three were here, drawing the heat from the air, readying themselves for a concerted attack.

"Go faster," he muttered and Dean rolled his eyes in frustration as he dragged the stone inch by inch from the hole, unable to spare the air for a suitable retort.

The old woman appeared first, wide, frog-like mouth stretching out and showing the few rotted teeth in her gums. She took a step toward him and he pulled the trigger, the shot blasting through the apparition and scattering it. The barrel swung around as he caught the movement in his peripheral vision, the old man fritzing and flickering in the flashlight beam, eyes set deep in the shadowed sockets.

Sam turned and fired, and the boy appeared at his side, lifting him and throwing him across the room before he could rack another shell in. He ducked his head, hitting the wall with his shoulder and dropping to the floor, rolling to his feet as he saw his brother wrenching at the block and the ghosts shimmer into focus behind him.

"Dean!"

Dean pulled the stone out and dropped it, throwing himself sidewards out of Sam's line of fire at the same time, his hand diving into the open canvas duffle next to the wall for the bag of salt. He pushed himself up against the wall, turning his head to watch Sam stagger up, when the chill descended on the room again.

The fingers that closed around his throat, pinning him back against the stone, didn't feel precisely like real fingers. They were cold, and thick, immensely strong and drawing his own energy out of him, somehow, the cold drain sucking at his strength, at his breath, at his bones. He tensed the muscle and tendons of his neck, ignoring the slowly materialising face in front of him, and lifted his arm, changing his grip on the hessian bag he held.

On the other side of the room, Sam saw the spirit manifest in front of Dean and took a long stride forward, then felt both of his arms gripped from either side, felt himself lifted off the floor, fingers like steel rods, digging into the muscle and nerves, the gun falling to the floor as his hand opened helplessly. He caught a glimpse of Dean's face, his brother's eyes widening as they shifted to him.

Dean watched Sam rising slowly into the air, and forced his chin down further against the pressure on his throat, reaching for the hole beside him. The crack of his brother's skull hitting the heavy timber that supported the low ceiling snapped his focus back on Sam, and he watched him drop to the floor and rise again, this time flung limply across the room, hitting the stone wall near the cellar steps, and falling bonelessly onto the ground.

"NO!"

The bag was in the hole, and his fingers ran down from the neck of it to the thick seam at the bottom, gripping it and swinging it across the space. Salt poured out of the neck, spraying and falling over the bones. Dragging the bag out, he threw the rest over the shade in front of him, sucking in a huge breath as the pressure disappeared, his hand diving into his pocket for the flat can of lighter fluid.

He turned to the hole and squirted the butane over the bones, sparkling now in the flashlight beam with the salt crystals, and felt for his lighter. Coldness hit him in the back and he arched forward involuntarily as it penetrated clothing, skin, flesh and centred around his heart, his fingers fumbling with the Zippo, their dexterity gone.

For a second, he froze, the pressure filling his chest, surrounding his heart shocking his body into stillness. _Not now_, he thought desperately. _One more breath_. He fought against the cold and dragged in a deep breath, hand rising with the lift of his ribs, the small yellow flame leaping up.

Darkness crowded his vision and he could feel his strength running out of him, his heart stopped for too long. The weak throw wouldn't reach the bones, he thought hopelessly, barely able to see. But the flaring of light inside the cavity proved him wrong.

High-pitched shrieks filled the space, jack-hammering into his skull, vibrating in his teeth. Then they were gone. The pressure in his chest was gone, the lingering coldness fading away. He dropped to his knees and leaned against the wall for a moment, forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale, oxygen driving out the darkness, filling his blood and his heart pumping it steadily.

He turned his head and saw his brother, crumpled on the floor beside the steps, and pushed off the wall, his legs still feeling weak but at least obeying him.

When he dropped to Sam's side, he saw the blood, thick and bright red on the back of his brother's head. He felt through the matted hair, finding a lump and a short split in the skin. Sam opened his eyes and looked up at him, breath hissing out as he shifted onto his shoulder.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, you?"

"I'll live," Dean allowed, rocking back onto his feet. "We should get out of here, find someplace to patch you up."

"Yeah," Sam eased himself up. His head was throbbing; he could feel a trickle of blood down his side. Other than that, he seemed to be functional.

* * *

It was well after midnight and both of the town's motels were shut up tight. And it had started to snow. Dean looked up at the fluffy flakes irritably.

"There was a building on the way into town," Sam said, leaning against the car. "Looked like it might have been empty."

Dean looked at him. His skin was pale and he looked like he needed to sit down. Even a derelict building would keep them warmer than spending the night in the car in a snowfall, he thought. And they had some camping gear in the trunk, some food. Water.

He nodded, opening the passenger door and helping Sam into the car.

The building was dark and quiet when he pulled up in front of it. It'd been a motel, he realised as he saw the sign, half-hanging from its supports. He left the engine running, the heater on and turned to Sam.

"Stay here. I'm gonna find us the best room, okay?"

Sam tipped his head back against the seat. "Yep. Okay."

Dean slid out and started with the office. Behind it, the manager's rooms looked mostly intact, a long couch and a couple of recliners in the living room. The place was dry.

He found a stack of blankets, moth-eaten and dusty, and carried them back to the room, dumping them on the couch. The beds were still there, but no mattresses. In the small kitchen, the water was still running, gravity fed rather than pumped, he thought vaguely. It would do.

He went back to the car and woke Sam, grabbing their gear as the snow fell more thickly around them, settling on the car and the ground, over the railings and rooftops. Looked like it was just getting started, he thought as he closed the door behind him. They'd be good for a couple of days.

"I'm alright, Dean," Sam said, pulling his head away. "Just a knock."

"Keep still. It's coming down thick outside so we've got plenty of time. No point not getting these dressed." He opened the small medical kit.

Sam exhaled gustily and shrugged out of his jacket, peeling back his shirt and lifting the t-shirt underneath. The long cut started over his ribs and finished above his hip-bone, not deep but wide and still bleeding. He couldn't remember what had caused it, couldn't remember when it had happened.

"Just a scratch," he said, looking down at it. Dean said nothing as he cleaned it up, finding the butterfly closures and drawing the two sides of the wound together, covering it with a dressing and taping it down. Sam shivered slightly in the cold air, and pulled off both shirts, tossing them onto the end of the couch and pulling out clean ones from his bag.

He took the bottle Dean offered him, unscrewing the lid and swallowing a couple of mouthfuls of the whiskey, grateful for the warmth that filled his throat and stomach as it went down. He watched his brother turn away, lighting the small pressure lantern, looking over the packaged and canned food that they kept in the car for times like these.

"We got, uh, stew … or … stew," Dean said, holding up a couple of cans.

"In that case, my preference is stew," Sam said dryly, tipping the bottle up again.

"Thought it would be." He lit the small camping stove and opened the can, dumping the contents into the pot.

* * *

Dean looked at the whiskey bottle in his hand. Almost empty. He wasn't cold. The recliner wasn't great but it was better than the floor, and he was under three of the blankets, the rest piled on Sam who was stretched out along the couch. The warm golden glow and soft hiss of the lantern lit about half of the room, radiating a small warmth against the deepening chill of the night.

"I'm gonna find it, Dean," Sam said, wincing as he rolled onto his side to look at him.

There was no need to ask what the 'it' Sam was determined to find was. His brother was focussed on only one thing at the moment, and that was finding a way out of his contract, finding a way to stop him from going to Hell.

He tried not to think about it, and all Sam's vehemence and increasingly frantic searching only thwarted that. He could see his brother's fear … in his eyes, in his face, when Sam thought he wasn't looking, and even when they were looking straight at each other. Working helped keep it in the background. Ruby's words echoed around in his head from time to time. He wouldn't have done it any differently. The choice had been the only one.

He tried not to imagine, but his imagination was very good. And all the books they'd gone through, all the demons they'd trapped and tortured and killed, all of it had given his imagination a lot to work with. And somewhere, down deep, he thought that even his imagination was falling far short of what the reality was going to be.

He leaned back against the chair, stretching out, ignoring the chilly coil in his stomach.

"Sam …"

"Yeah?" His brother looked at him, eyes half-closed.

"Once I'm gone, you get out, okay?" he said quietly, turning his head to look at him.

Sam's eyes widened abruptly. "No."

"You can go back to college, finish what you started –" he continued, staring at Sam.

"No, I can't –"

"Yeah, you can," Dean said. "You can have what you wanted."

"I don't want that anymore, Dean," Sam snapped, shifting his position on the couch. "It was always a pipedream."

"Maybe it was, but not anymore. Dad's gone, and I will be too, so there's nothing to keep you here."

"That's not true," he levered himself upright, ignoring the race of pain from his side, the woozy combination of head injury and alcohol. "You were right, Dean. About saving people. About this meaning something."

Dean shook his head. Now he was going to come around, he thought sardonically. "Doesn't matter, this is a chance, Sammy. It's a way back for you."

"Dean, I don't want a way back."

"Too bad," Dean said, anger suddenly rising. He'd made the deal to give his brother a chance, to give him what he'd thought he needed, life – and a chance for a life that his brother had said his whole life that he wanted.

"Too bad?" Sam smiled doubtfully. "Dean, that life, that idea, dream, whatever it was, that was – that was when I had Jess."

Dean looked at him. There wasn't much he could say to counter that. "You'll find someone else, Sam."

"No," Sam said harshly, shaking his head. "I won't. That – that comes along once, if you're lucky."

Dean was silent. He didn't know about that. He'd thought he'd had … had felt … something like it, maybe, with Cassie. But he'd been wrong, he'd realised that when he'd seen her again, still feeling that rush of desire, just not the rest, the rest that he didn't really know about, but had sensed had to be there. He thought he might've had a chance for something like that with Lisa, and her son, Ben, but that wasn't going to happen either.

He'd spent a lot of time trying to convince Sam that hunting was a good life, a life with purpose, that meant something, stood for something. And while he wouldn't change anything he'd done, he'd come to realise that it had been a mistake to bring Sam back into that life. He could've left him alone, he'd have been safer.

_I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school. I want Dean to have a home._

His father's words were soft, in a memory he tried not to look at too often. He wanted the same things. _Now_.

He looked down, wondering how to explain how he felt to his brother. He was acutely aware that he had enough problems articulating a lot of his thoughts to himself, let alone trying to make someone else understand.

"Sam, I need a promise, that you'll stop, go back to school," he said.

"No," Sam shook his head, wincing at the pain the movement brought. "Not gonna promise that, I can't promise that."

"Jesus, Sam, this is what I want for you – hell, this is why I made the deal!" he snapped, then wished he could take it back when he saw Sam's face.

"You shouldn't have made the deal at all, Dean!"

"I couldn't let you die, alright?" Dean looked away, forcing those memories down.

"You should've," Sam said, his voice dropping low.

Dean looked back at him, brows drawing together in frustration.

"Sam, it's gonna be bad enough, I need … I need to know that you're gonna be safe," he finally admitted, his throat thick with trying to keep that need locked down, not show how much he was relying on that idea just to put one foot in front of the other every single day.

Sam turned away. "Won't be necessary. I'm gonna find a way to stop it."

* * *

_**January 23, 2008**_

Sam turned away from the window, looking at the lump under the blankets on the chair.

"How much food have we got, Dean?"

Dean pulled the blankets down, opening an eye. "Enough for a couple of days. Why?"

"We're not getting out of here today," Sam said, gesturing to the window and walking carefully back to the couch.

Dean pushed the blankets off and got to his feet, walking over to the window in the front wall. He pulled the curtain back and saw a smooth, featureless plain of white. And the snow was still falling.

"At least the snow'll help insulate the place," he remarked, turning back. "You want some coffee?"

"Definitely."

He crouched by the stove, lighting it and putting a panful of water on the burner. He glanced at his brother, wrapped up to the eyeballs again under the pile of blankets.

"What was it like?" he asked quietly. "Living a normal life, and uh, college, living with Jessica?"

Sam's eyes widened almost comically over the edge of the blankets.

"You haven't asked me anything about that, Dean," he said slowly, warily. "Why now?"

Dean shrugged. "You didn't want to talk about it after … and then, things got busy … I don't know. I'm asking now because we're stuck here and I want to know now."

The wariness remained in Sam's face. "It was the best time of my life."

He watched his brother duck his head, half-turning away to the coffee on the stove. He'd known that would hurt, how could it not? It was the truth though, and he thought if Dean really wanted to know about it, he'd have to accept that.

"I got there and the first few months, I didn't know what I was doing," he continued softly. "I had … culture shock, I guess. I nearly got on the bus and tried to find you, even thought about apologising to Dad." He smiled as Dean's head swung around at that. "It felt … like I – I was in a movie, or something, not real. Not life but just playing at it."

He shook his head. "I thought, after Flagstaff, I'd be able to fit right in, you know. I couldn't. That scared me, really scared me."

"Then I met Jess."

_A beautiful autumn Californian day. An armful of books. Rushing down the hall, not sure where the damned lecture room was and painfully aware that he was already late. He hadn't seen her until he'd practically run right over the top of her._

"_Sorry! Damn, I'm sorry – here, can I help –?" he'd said, words tumbling out of his mouth as he'd rolled to his feet, doubled over trying to sort out his books from hers, picking them up. He'd looked up and into her face and felt the ground falling out from under him, the world vanishing around him, lost in a pair of blue eyes that had been laughing at him._

"_Thanks but I think you've helped enough," she'd said, getting onto her knees and gathering up her stuff._

"_I'm so sorry, look – is there anything – anyway I can make it up to you?"_

"_Is this how you ask girls out?" She'd straightened up and he'd realised how tall she was, how tall and straight and slim and … and … perfect she was. "Knock them down and offer to make it up?"_

_He'd felt the blush rise up his neck, knew that he was turning an unlovely shade of brick red and looked down at the floor. She'd shaken the long, golden fall of her hair back over her shoulders and smiled._

"_Jessica Moore," she'd said, offering her hand. He'd taken it gently, and felt her fingers close firmly around his._

"I literally ran into her, knocked her off her feet," Sam said, half-smiling.

Dean poured the coffee into two mugs and leaned over to hand one to Sam. "Smooth."

"Yeah. Not one of my best moments, but there was something there." Sam lifted a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. "After that, everything else just fell together. It all felt right, like – like – a light went on or something. Everything I did felt a hundred percent right. I could breathe again, could see where I was going, what it would all look like when I got there."

He looked at his brother. "You know, what Yellow Eyes said – that was true. I was going to ask her to marry me. I'd been looking around for rings and everything. I know you don't get that, what that's like," he added, brow crinkling up. "I'm not sure I can explain it any better."

Dean lifted his head, looking at him. "That's why I want you to get out. To have that."

Sam shook his head. "I can't. I told you. That was a one-in-a-million, Dean. I could look for it the rest of my life and never find it again."

"You don't know that."

"I do know it," Sam said quietly. "I can feel it. I had my chance and I lost it."

* * *

Dean cradled the hot cup in both hands, thinking of what Sam had said. He knew what it had meant to Sam. He got it. A year ago, he wouldn't have. But now … now he did. His father had known he'd feel like this, he thought. Had known what had been important to him. He didn't think that Sam would ever understand him, not really, not all the way through.

When Lisa'd asked him to stay, he'd felt it. That pull to a normal life, with a family. He'd told her it wasn't his life. That'd been true. It'd also been hard to turn away from.

He wasn't sure of where that pull had come from, only that it had been growing in him for the last few months. To belong somewhere. To belong with someone, to someone. It might've been fear, fear of what was coming for him, fear of where he was going. He didn't think that was all it was, but it definitely was a part of it. It hadn't been until he'd looked at the kid, and thought of the possibility that Ben'd been his, that he'd realised the depth of his own feelings, his own sense of aloneness. Of loneliness.

Hunting wasn't the same anymore. He kept trying to pretend that it was, trying to recapture the way it'd once felt to him, but he couldn't. Everyone was gone, it seemed like. His father. Jim. Caleb. He'd grown up hunting with them and he couldn't believe sometimes that he couldn't drive into Jim's dirt yard and see the man's face grinning at him from the porch, a beer in one hand, waiting for him. Couldn't believe that his father wouldn't leave a cryptic message for him, ever again, somewhere, that he'd have to work out.

The demon was dead. His father was out of Hell. And somehow, instead of everything being just goddamned fine, it had all turned inside out and things were a lot worse than he ever could have imagined. Demons had gushed out of the hell gate like a river.

And he was going to Hell.

_It's not philosophy, it's not a metaphor. There's a real fire in the pit, agonies you can't even imagine_

He closed his eyes, pushing the demon's words away, and the images that came with them, his imaginings, his slowly-growing fears.

_You need to help me get him ready, for life without you; to fight this war on his own._

And that was the other thing, wasn't it? He didn't want to leave Sam on his own. He'd thought he'd done the right thing, hell, he'd done the only thing he could, but it would be worse for Sam now. He didn't want him fighting on his own. He wanted him … he needed him to be out, to be safe, to find some kind of happiness so that his brother could get past what was going to happen.

_And so you don't have to carry that fear down with you_, he thought. It ate at him. That his choice might've been for nothing. That he'd be spending eternity in agony and Sam would still die on the front line. He had to know his brother would be safe. Had to.

* * *

"So, on tonight's menu we got stew," Dean said, looking at the can appraisingly.

"Or?"

"Sorry, yeah, or stew."

"We'll call it the special," Sam suggested. "I'll have the special."

Dean nodded. "Sounds better than stew."

He set the pot on the stove. There wasn't much fuel left in it. Enough for another pot of coffee, maybe.

Getting to his feet, he went to the window again, lifting an edge of the curtain. The snow had stopped falling, but he could feel the cold out there through the glass. Another few inches, maybe more had fallen throughout the day, and the shovels were in the trunk. He looked obliquely out through the window to the door, seeing the drift halfway up, covering the outside knob. _Awesome_.

He dropped the curtain and returned to the slightly warmer circle of light. The lantern was still chugging along, burning brightly with a very slight hiss. His father had never relied on just one form of anything.

"What'd Lisa say about Ben?"

Dean turned around, looking at Sam, one brow rising.

"C'mon, man. You were practically sweating every time you looked at the kid, and the timing was right. He wasn't yours, was he?" Sam asked.

"No," he said after a moment's consideration. "She said she had a blood test done."

Sam was looking at him quizzically. "Were you disappointed?"

He turned away, mouth twisting slightly. He wasn't sure about that. A part of him had been. Another part had been relieved. He didn't know how much he wanted to tell Sam, how much he wanted him to know. _You're going to Hell in a few months and you're quibbling over this crap now?_ The thought brought a half-a-smile.

"I don't know. In one way, maybe," he said finally, sitting down and glancing up at Sam. "Wouldn't have been the best time to get a family."

"No," Sam agreed. "If that wasn't the case, I mean, if you weren't … on a one-way ticket … would you have stayed?"

Dean leaned back against the side of the chair, closing his eyes. He'd tossed the question around a little. Hypothetically.

"No," he told his brother. "The demons that came out of the hell gate, finding out why Yellow Eyes wanted you, just the crap in our lives … there's too much to do, I couldn't have just bailed out and left –" _You to clean it up by yourself_, he thought but didn't say out loud. "It's not my life."

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly. "It could've been."

Dean shook his head slowly. "A year ago, Sam, it would never have entered my mind."

"No. But a lot changed," Sam said. "You changed."

Had he? He didn't know that. It didn't feel like he'd changed all that much, just that his choices had decreased suddenly. To zero, in fact. He finished the mushy food in the pot and got up, going to the sink and filling it half-full of water.

"Dean?" Sam turned and rested his arm on the back of the couch, looking at him. "Do you want that? Maybe? A home? A family?"

They were both thinking of the same thing, Dean knew. The djinn's dream that he'd lived in and hadn't wanted to come back from. That'd been different. That had been Mom and Sam and Jess – and his father, with them growing up in a normal life. He'd wanted that. Had wanted that so badly he could taste it. To turn back time and have a do-over. No demons. No monsters. No pain or fear.

_No hunting_. No thrill of knowing that he was strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to take down things that most people didn't even know about it, to save people … no skill or knowledge or satisfaction. The thought brought a shiver of unease to the back of his neck. He wouldn't be himself. He'd have been someone else, without those things.

What would a family life be like with his own family? He couldn't envisage it, not really. He wouldn't be hunting. He'd get a job … that was about as far as he could get with that thought.

"Doesn't matter, does it, Sam?" he said, going to the chair and settling down into it.

It didn't matter. That choice, along with all the others he'd thought he'd have, was gone. The weeks went by and he'd perfected not looking at the date on his watch, when he looked at the time. Not looking at dates at all, if he could help it. This year, his last year, was going by so fast. And the things he thought he might've done, might have tried, might've experienced … they were all out of reach now. Having a family, having a home, having a normal life, was just one of them.

"I'll find a way, Dean," Sam said.

Dean closed his eyes and rolled onto his shoulder, pulling the blankets over himself. "Yeah."

* * *

_**January 24, 2008**_

Dean woke to the sound of water … running, gurgling, dripping, sloshing. Down the gutters and downpipes, over the roof above him. Snow's melting, he thought groggily, pushing back the blankets and getting up.

Through the window he could see the horizon lightening to the east, the cloudless sky showing the first tinges of blue. The pack had diminished, the car a hump now visible outside, instead of buried under the featureless white. Wouldn't even need the shovels once the sun got up, he thought, his hand pressed against the glass of the window, feeling the difference in the temperature. The drift against the door was half the size.

He turned back and lit the stove, boiling water for coffee. Glancing at the blanket-covered lump on the couch, he thought of how Sam had been after Jessica's death. Guilty, of course. Who could escape that? Angry. Having nightmares. Desperate to find their father, to kill the demon who'd done it, looking for revenge.

He realised he'd never seen Sam actually grieve for her, grieve and let go. Maybe he didn't want to, he thought slowly. Maybe never letting go was why he didn't want to go back, try again. Or maybe Sam knew, somewhere deep inside, a place that had already admitted the futility of all his searching, that he was going to lose the last of his family and he needed anger to keep going, as he had after her death.

He tossed in the ground coffee and leaned against the chair, watching the light spill in past the curtains, fill the room slowly.

He found it painfully ironic that after years of being the buffer between his father and brother, through all the fights and arguments and disagreements the two of them had had, now he couldn't convince Sam to go and live the life that most of those fights had been about.

No one understood the need for revenge, for payback, more than him. He'd lived it, breathed it, all his remembered life. For the loss of his home, his mother, his father, his friends. For the loss of how he'd seen his life, and himself. For the fear that ate at him every single day, a fear that he wasn't as strong as his father, couldn't protect Sam as well, couldn't get rid of his weaknesses and be the soldier that his father had needed. He knew the taste of wanting payback for all those things.

This, what was coming for him, what would take him, was different, he thought. There was no payback for a choice he'd made freely – okay, not freely, but willingly – he amended. There was no one, no thing, that Sam could kill and feel that he'd avenged his brother's death. He would be dead to the world, but not at peace. How could Sam kill enough to get a sense of closure from that?

"Arrggh." The half-moan was muffled by the blankets. "What time is it?"

"About seven," Dean said, leaning forward and turning off the stove.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah." He looked in the pot, seeing the grounds had settled to the bottom, and poured a cup for Sam, and another for himself.

"Thanks." Sam sat up, wincing slightly at the tug of the dressing over the cut in his side.

"Snow's melting."

"Good. Don't think I can face another can of stew," he said tiredly, sipping at the hot black liquid.

Dean smiled slightly and looked down at his mug. "Sam, you wanted normal since you were old enough to know that our life wasn't …"

Sam looked at him. "Yeah."

"So you can have it. No strings, no guilt. Just go back to Stanford and get on with it." Dean kept his gaze on the mug in his hands.

For a long time, Sam didn't answer. Dean flicked a glance at him, seeing his brother staring at the window, mouth thinned out a little. He watched him pull in a deep breath.

"Dean, I wanted normal when I knew that you and Dad were okay, would be okay, somewhere in the country, doing what you were doing," he said, his voice thick and deep. "I wanted normal when I had someone to love, someone who loved me, who made normal seem … normal, who made life – my life – unbelievable."

He looked down at his brother. "I can't live normal, can't pretend to live normal when I've lost everything. I can't go back to school, and pretend that Jess was in a car accident, pretend that you died a natural death, that Dad did." He shook his head slightly. "I don't want normal any more. I want – I need – to stop this, to make it stop, to keep going."

He sucked in another deep breath, looking away. "Even if I can't – even if – I can't lie to myself. Not about this."

Dean nodded, turning away to look at the window. He couldn't argue with that.

* * *

_**I-80 E, Illinois**_

Dean glanced at his brother, hunched up against the passenger door.

"You hungry?"

Sam shook his head a little, staring out through the windshield.

"I'm gonna pull over somewhere, get something to eat."

He looked back at the road, chewing on his lip. When the sun had risen, the snow had started melting fast, and it hadn't taken much to get the car uncovered and back on the road.

His brother had been silent for the last three hours. He had an idea what was going through Sam's head, but he couldn't talk about that. Didn't leave many other options. Sam had been increasingly pissed at him for not trying harder to find something that would break the contract. He hadn't told him, couldn't tell him that even if Sam found a way to do it, he wouldn't let him.

_I'll give you one year. And one year only. But here's the thing. If you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. Sam drops dead. He's back to rotten meat in no time._

The deal was specific. He wasn't going to mess with it.

Turning his wrist, he looked at his watch. Half past twelve. Ahead, a sign for the turnoff to Elkhart advised it was a mile to the off ramp and he changed lanes. They weren't on a job, and he was sick of driving, going nowhere. Sam looked up.

"Where are we going?"

"Get a room, have a night off," Dean said, flicking a sideways glance at him. "We could have a decent meal and a solid eight."

Sam nodded, leaning back against the door.

* * *

The motel was reasonable, the rooms clean. Dean checked them in and unloaded the car, his gaze going to his brother every few minutes.

"Sam? You alright?"

Sam looked up. "Yeah. Just, uh … yeah."

"I'm gonna have a shower," Dean said, dumping the bags at the foot of the nearest bed. "What do you want to do with this golden time off?"

"I don't know," Sam said, looking around the room. "Uh, I'll think of something."

Looking at him, he felt the usual twist in his stomach. His brother was falling. He wasn't sure how to catch him. He turned away and walked into the bathroom. He'd think of something when he was feeling more like a human, less like a piece of crud.

He came out of the bathroom ten minutes later to find the room empty, and swore softly under his breath, throwing the thin towel across the end of the bed and pulling out clean clothes from his bag. _Sonofabitch could be anywhere_, he thought, glancing out the window. The Impala sat in her slot out the front of the room. Anywhere in walking distance, he amended, and grabbed his jacket and keys.

* * *

The bar was two blocks from the motel. Not big, the lighting soft, a few people sitting at the long counter, a couple playing pool on the far side of the room. He pushed the door open and looked around, feeling a surge of relief seeing his brother hunched over an empty centre table, hand curled around a glass of dark amber liquid.

"There you are. What are you doing?" He stood beside him, hiding the worry he'd felt, hiding the apprehension that was filling him looking at Sam's face.

Sam turned to him, shrugging. "Having a drink."

"It's two in the afternoon." He looked down at the glass. "Drinking whiskey?"

"I drink whiskey all the time," Sam said defensively.

"No, you don't," Dean contradicted him.

"What's the big deal? You get sloppy in bars, you hit on chicks all the time. Why can't I?" Sam looked around moodily.

Dean looked around the bar as well. There was a woman sitting at the bar, talking to a friend, hennaed hair and heavy eye makeup. He felt his brows rise as he looked back at Sam.

"Kind of slim pickings around here," he said dryly. "What's going on with you?"

Sam shook his head tiredly, staring at his glass. After a long moment, he exhaled softly. "I tried, Dean."

"To do what?" Dean asked, eyes widening a little.

"To save you."

He sat down and looked at the bartender. "Could I get a whiskey, double, neat."

Sam slid a sideways look at him. "I'm serious, Dean."

"No, you're drunk," he countered, mouth twisting derisively.

"I mean, where you're going ... what you're gonna become …" Sam drew in a breath, his eyes bleak. "I can't stop it."

Dean watched him, not sure where this was going. Yesterday Sam had been vehement. What had happened? Whatever had caused the three hours of silence in the car, he thought tiredly. His brother's thoughts, looping around the impossible.

"I'm starting to think maybe even Ruby can't stop it. But really, the thing is, no one can save you," Sam muttered.

Dean looked down. _No, Ruby had been clear about that_. "What I've been telling you."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean, no one can save you because you don't want to be saved," Sam's voice got louder, a thread of anger running through it, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "I mean, how can you care so little about yourself?"

Dean looked away uncomfortably, unsure of what to say to that.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam said bitterly.

He looked back at him, thoughts and memories and fears and doubts crowding so thickly that he couldn't say anything. _Where do I start?_ The thought had an edge of hysteria to it, and he shoved it aside. He wasn't going to get into this. Not now.

The shrill ring of his cell broke through the silence between them and he pulled the phone out, looking at the number.

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana. 2010.**_

Dean leaned back, his exhale just audible in the silent room. They'd driven to Pittsburgh, through the night, and that had been the end of that conversation. Lucky for him, he thought.

Wanting normal, he thought. It'd just been a glimmer of a possibility, before he'd gone to Hell. Just an idea in his mind that had kept him going, somehow, like the promise of something special to a child. And Sam had jettisoned it. The two of them had been so screwed up.

He straightened up, looking at the empty glass in his hand, and reaching for the half-full bottle on the table. He was still so screwed up, he thought, pouring out another double, putting the bottle down and picking up the glass. Here he was, right in the middle of normal, unable to feel it, unable to enjoy it, wondering if he'd been wrong. Back then, he'd thought Lisa and Ben were all he wanted. Now, he realised that it had been a dream. He couldn't be a civilian. He couldn't be himself. Not here.

He lifted the glass and swallowed a mouthful, the taste leaping over his tongue, the fire barely noticed.

It'd been a couple of months later that Ellie had called Sam, told them she could break the contract, that she could save him. And then had vanished. He shook his head. Sam had been so hyped up at the possibility that the crash on the other side had been exponentially damaging. He should have known, they both should have known, that nothing could've stopped what had happened. But they didn't find out about Heaven's manipulations and Hell's machinations until after. After he'd been pulled out.

He looked around the room through half-closed eyes, remembering his feelings that the hunting life, the one he'd grown up with, had changed irrevocably with the death of his father, of Jim and Caleb. It hadn't, not really. It'd gotten harder, no backup, no warmth of friendship and trust and love to put his back against. But it hadn't changed that he was good at it. Hadn't changed that even when the angels and demons had been running him and Sam ragged from one side of the country to the other, they'd still managed to do their jobs. Hadn't changed the fact that without it, here in this peace and safety and stultifying boredom, he was dying, a little more each day.

He looked at the cream phone, sitting on the other side of the room. Why didn't he ever pick it up, call Bobby? Call Rufus? Call anyone and talk to them, connect to someone who knew him?

He wasn't sure. A part of it was the recognition that it would raise feelings in him that he couldn't handle, not yet. About Sam. About hunting. Things he'd pushed down and away. In a way, he was trapped in his own head here, as much as he'd been in '07 in the djinn's dream, living with people who didn't know him, didn't know who he was, living a life that had no possible meaning for him.

He dragged in a breath and leaned forward, looking down into the amber liquid that filled the glass he held. And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't tell them who he was. Couldn't explain what had happened to him, in his life, how it'd been. Like trying to explain a colour to a person blind from birth, there were no correlations, no points of reference, for him or for them.

He cared about Lisa, but there was no rush of emotion that he'd felt – there was just the feeling that he could be safe here, that he could do what he had to do. Waking up with her, going through the routine that delineated each and every day, talking to them about whatever was happening … all safe, and predictable and … it was restful, sort of, he thought. And it only took about a third of him, to function like this, to live like this. The rest was … dormant, inert, unused. Like the car. Like the guns.

_How long can you pretend that you're someone else_, he wondered? This wasn't his life, god, he'd been right about that. And there were too many times he couldn't remember why he'd wanted it, wanted to be here, like this.

Lifting the glass, he looked at the colour through the lamplight. Red-gold with the light behind it. A bright almost coppery colour. He tipped the rest into his mouth, swallowing convulsively until the glass was empty. There were a lot of things he didn't allow himself to think about. A lot of territory that was marked forbidden.

Glancing at his watch, he sighed. Two. His eye caught the date as he let his hand fall.

_Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester._


	7. Chapter 7 All Roads to Hell

**Chapter 7 All Roads to Hell**

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana, 2011**_

"Baby, you okay?"

Dean looked up at Lisa, her shape silhouetted against the soft hallway light.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just, uh, can't sleep right now," he said, forcing a smile as she walked into the room.

"Maybe we can do something about that?" She sat down next to him, and he sighed softly.

"Not – uh, not really. Not now."

"You had a nightmare?" she asked, and he looked down at the glass in his hand. "Talking about it sometimes helps."

"Sometimes," he agreed. "But, I can't really talk about it yet."

It wasn't meant to be a rejection, he didn't mean it to be a rejection but from her stillness beside him, he knew that's the way she'd taken it.

"I – I just need to sit with it for a while," he explained awkwardly, glancing at her.

She smiled, only a little stiffly, and nodded. "Okay. I'll leave you to it, then."

He watched her get up, walk out of the room slowly and leaned back.

Half the time, _most of the time_, he corrected himself tiredly, he felt as if he was walking on eggshells, not sure of what to say, or do. He was careful, and he kept as much of himself away from them as he could. He'd seen them flinch from him, when he'd first gotten here. He couldn't deal with seeing it again.

In the daylight hours it was easier. When the sun was up he kind of remembered how to be with people, to focus on the here and now and keep all the memories and fear and pain down deep. But at night … it came out, teeth and claws red with his blood and intermittent, jerky images from his subconscious unrolling behind his eyelids. Of his brother. Of Hell. Of demons and monsters and a pain that he could still feel, coruscating through his nervous system sometimes when his armour was gone. And what his imagination was convinced was going on while he slept in a soft bed and ate good food every day, and went through a daily routine that required so little of him that he passed through most days in a kind of waking dream state.

He tried not to hurt them but he saw that sometimes he did anyway. They wanted so much of him and there was just no way he could give it to them. He saw in her eyes that she knew, on some level, how much was missing, all the things he never spoke of. He lived in a world of tightly held control, smiling when he felt like screaming, agreeing to things he thought were meaningless.

It was the price, right? The price he'd agreed to pay, for what his brother thought he'd wanted. A normal life. A life with a woman and a kid where he could – what? Be safe? Be at peace? He couldn't relax. He couldn't be himself, because that would have sent them running for the hills. He couldn't tell her about his past or what he'd done or how it had felt. He couldn't do anything but be here, smile pasted on, trying to find a way to be that didn't feel like a lie. Trying to find a way to surgically remove all that he'd been and all that he'd felt and let it fall away into a black abyss where he never needed to think about it again.

He looked at the glass, seeing with a faint surprise that it was empty. He didn't remember finishing the whiskey that it'd held. The bottle sat on the table and he poured another without stopping to ask himself if that was a good idea.

_Walking on eggshells_. The last time had been with Sam.

* * *

_**Longbeach, California, April 2009**_

Dean looked up as the neatly stacked photocopies and reports and piles of notes he'd spent the morning going through blew off the table in front of him and fluttered to the floor around the room. The late afternoon sea-breeze swirled in through the open door with a fresh tang of salt as Sam stood there glaring at him, finally slamming the door closed behind him, and shutting out the wind.

"This is a waste of time, Dean."

"Tell me what you really think, Sam," Dean said, sliding out of the chair and gathering up the papers slowly.

"We should be hunting down Lilith, not screwing around with a haunting we're not even sure is a haunting," Sam said, dumping an armload of books on the table on top of the papers that remained. "I can't find any references to the building site or the original owners in the local library."

"Four people have died, Sam," Dean said, one knee under him, hands full of loose papers as he looked up at his brother. "They were alone at the time, they were healthy, young, and the autopsies found ice in their pumps … how is that not our thing?"

Sam stared at him balefully then went to the small fridge in the kitchenette and pulled out a beer.

"That building is brand-new, Dean. I mean, the top ten floors aren't even fully finished yet. No workmen have died there. No one has died there. The block has been empty since 1933," he said, turning around and twisting off the top. "Where's the ghost been all this time?"

"I don't know," Dean said in a low voice, straightening up and roughly shuffling the papers and notes. "That's what we're supposed to find out. Maybe someone got planted in the foundation? Maybe in '33 someone died in the old building – I don't know."

"There can't be more than fifteen seals left, Dean, from what Cas said last week. We should be hunting Lilith!"

"We can't find Lilith, Sam," Dean countered, looking at the pile of the books. "We've tried."

"And whose fault is that?" Sam scowled at the floor.

Dean smiled slightly. "Yeah, next time I'll leave you two in peace."

"She was there, at least," Sam snapped. "If we'd had a plan to deal with her together, instead of you going off to get Chuck, maybe we could've taken her!"

"Well, we didn't," Dean sighed. "Let it go, Sam. It's done, over with. And this needs your full attention." He sat down and dragged a couple of the books toward him. "And get me a beer."

Sam pulled a beer from the fridge and handed it to his brother as he sat down. "We don't even know what we're looking for. We need help."

"Alright, who do you suggest? Bobby's out of town." Dean twisted the top off as he opened the first book and started reading. "Rufus said he was going out of the country for a couple of months."

"I don't know," Sam stared at the book in front of him. "Ellie was in San Francisco."

"When?"

"Last week." Sam pulled out his phone and looked at his messages. He dialled the number.

"Ellie? Hey, it's Sam," he said. "Where are you? Uh huh … listen, we've got a haunting of some kind in Long Beach, yeah. Right. Can't find any reason for it. Oh. In '33? Ellie – wait – uh, okay."

He cut the call and put the phone down, on the table. Dean looked at him, brows raised.

"And? Where is she?"

"In Vegas. She, uh, said there was an earthquake in Long Beach in '33 then she had to go, said she'd call back later."

"An earthquake? Big enough to knock down the buildings, I take it?"

"I guess so," he opened the book and flipped through the history of the area until he got to 1933. "Yeah, a hundred and fifteen people dead."

"Alright. Our vacant lot in there? Was there a building there before?"

"Yeah, the tallest building in the area, a six-storey office building," Sam read the page quickly. "Knocked flat, along with half the neighbourhood."

"Anyone in it?" Dean skipped through the chapters of the book on local history he had open.

"Uh … no," Sam said slowly. "Earthquake hit at five minutes to six on a Friday afternoon and the building was empty, according to this."

"But maybe it wasn't?"

"Maybe," Sam agreed distractedly. "This doesn't have anything about the businesses that were leasing the space, or who owned it."

Dean glanced at his watch and leaned back in the chair. "I don't suppose the business records are likely to be available online for back then?"

Sam's mouth twisted to one side. "No."

"And it's Sunday, so we have to wait till tomorrow to go down to the county offices and look them up?"

Sam looked at him quizzically. "You going somewhere with this?"

"I'm starving. Let's get something to eat," Dean admitted, shutting the book and getting up.

* * *

The tiny restaurant sat on a small hill overlooking the industrial harbour and catching the cool, damp air from the ocean. Dean watched, half-amused, half-disgusted as Sam ploughed his way through the crab he'd ordered, bits of bright red shell littering his plate.

The sharp trill of Sam's phone went almost unnoticed in the busy room, and Sam pulled it out, looking at the caller and putting the phone down on the table between him and his brother.

"Ellie? You're on speaker."

"Sam, okay, sorry about earlier, just had a bit of a situation that I had to take care of," Ellie's voice was strong and clear on the phone.

"What are you doing in Vegas?" Dean couldn't help asking.

"Shifter," she answered tersely. "Listen, what kind of help do you need, 'cos I've got another day at least on this, maybe longer."

"We're trying to track down the previous owner and tenants of the building that used to occupy the block," Sam said.

"What's going on with you?" Dean added, brows drawing together slightly.

"Nothing, it's all fine," Ellie said. There was a moment of silence as she drew in a breath and the tension left her voice. "Letters of incorporation and tenancy agreements should be with whatever law firm handled the business – do you have a company name?"

"Uh … no," Sam checked the notes in the small notebook he carried around. "Just the address."

"What's the address? The criss-cross might get the name." They heard a clicking noise on the line as Sam read it out. "Yeah, okay, Weinman and Sons, incorporated 1919 in Long Beach," she said. "Hang on, there's some more here."

They listened to the tapping of keys for a moment. "Legal firm that handled the company matters also handled the board and the owner's legal matters. I have one name repeating across all three files."

"What are you looking at?" Sam frowned as he saw his brother's brows rising.

"EDGAR and Axciom," Ellie told him distractedly. "Harold Weinman, founder. Died from a heart attack in 1933 in front of his building, body accounted for, um … cremated. His sons didn't carry on, and the company was dissolved after Weinman's death … but the property was never sold, it remained in the family."

"Until the land prices went up and his family sold it to a developer?"

"No, one of the grandsons is the developer listed for the site," Ellie corrected him. "Ruben Weinman, only son of Harold's oldest son, Isaac. He lives at 4261 Long Beach Boulevard, behind the Virginia Country Club, in Long Beach."

"Thanks," Sam murmured, writing down the address.

"So if granddad is pissed that his sons didn't carry on the business, but he was cremated, how's he hanging around?" Dean asked, around a mouthful of burger.

"Got me," Ellie said, her voice becoming muffled for a moment. "If you need some backup, there's a guy, Franklin Rooney, lives just out of Long Beach, who can help. His number is 555-8181."

"Okay, got it," Sam said, writing that down as well. "He's a hunter?"

"Semi-retired, but yeah," Ellie said. "I'm really sorry I can't get down there –"

"That's okay, this is great," Sam interrupted, shaking his head. "Good luck with the shifter."

"Right." She hung up and Sam picked up his phone, cutting off the call.

"Well, guess we don't have to wait for tomorrow," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "You thinking there're remains, somewhere at the site? 'Cause once the foundations for the new building went down, that pretty much cancelled out us being able to do anything about that."

"Yeah." Sam's enthusiasm deflated immediately. "Maybe the grandson has some of his grandfather's personal effects?"

Dean finished his food and looked at the mess of crab covering his brother's plate. "You done with that?"

Sam nodded. "Let's check it out."

* * *

_And another dead end_, Dean thought, as he opened the room's door and walked inside. Five hours of talking to Weinman, his daughter and her husband, who handled the legal matters for the family now, and nothing to show for it.

"What now?" Sam closed the door behind him and walked to the bed, dropping onto it with a heavy exhale.

"Good question," Dean said. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, looking blankly at the files and books that covered it. "We're pretty sure that the ghost is Weinman?"

"Yeah, I think that's beyond doubt."

"So there has to be something of his floating around, right?" He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Something that the spirit can attach to?"

"Yeah, right," Sam said, sitting up and looking at him. "But the old man's effects went to the family and there's nothing left of them. Besides," he added, getting up and going to the fridge. "It has to be something that's still in the building – building site – whatever – or the ghost wouldn't be killing in the new building."

"Right."

He leaned his head on his arm, thinking about what little they had learned. Harold Weinman had been a very hands-on kind of business owner. The company had been his baby and he'd expected his sons to take over when he was gone. The earthquake had more or less put paid to that, giving both of Weinman's sons the excuse they needed to give up on the business. So what was the spirit's motivation? What was the unfinished stuff it was trying to finish? Or was it just feeling pissed that a lifetime's work had been flattened and the new building was a reminder. Or had the new building stirred up the ghost somehow?

"Did we get the underground blueprints for the foundations of the new building?" he asked suddenly, lifting his head to look at his brother.

Sam handed him a beer and sat down on the other side of the table, shaking his head. "No, just the floorplans."

"What if …," Dean said slowly, twisting the top off the beer and swallowing a mouthful. "What if the excavation for the new foundations moved something, something of Harold's that had been overlooked when the rubble was cleared from the site after the quake?"

"It's buried under the damned building if there was," Sam said sourly.

"Not necessarily," Dean straightened in his chair. "They had to comply with the new building codes for earthquake resistance, didn't they? And reconnect the site to the power grid? Sewerage, gas, communications cables – there could be a lot of space under the foundations?"

"I guess so."

"So who has those plans? County? Utilities? Architects?" Dean raised a brow at him.

Sam picked up his bag and opened his laptop. "All of them, I guess, or at least their own plans."

* * *

"How many miles of tunnel are we talking about?" Dean looked at the screen in frustration an hour later.

"About four miles, total," Sam said, scrolling through the layouts. "But some of them, we're not going to get into, they're too small."

"Perfect," Dean said, irritation riddling his voice as he stared at the wall. "What are we waiting for?"

Sam sighed and downloaded the schematics to his phone. "Do you want to split up for this?"

"Huh? No. If we do find … whatever it is, we're gonna be trapped down there with one pissed ghost." Dean was rummaging through the gear bag. He pulled out the sawn-off. "We've still got to get out and burn it without getting our hearts snap frozen."

He tossed a canister of salt and a small flat can of butane to his brother, shoving one of each into his jacket pockets.

* * *

"How do we get in?" Dean looked around the deserted street. Sam gestured to the building in front of them.

"Parking lot."

He nodded and they walked unhurriedly to the rear of the new building, finding the alarm system without difficulty and breaking the cover. Dean held the pen light between his teeth as he bridged the wires and looked over at the electronic lock on the rear access door. The small red light became green as the wires touched, and Sam pushed the door open, holding it while Dean twisted the pair together and followed him in.

He stashed the pen light and pulled out his flashlight, and they crossed the dark concrete in silence, Sam looking for the access panel that was marked on the schematic, his face lit up by the white light of his phone screen.

"Okay. There it is," he said quietly and waited, looking around as Dean took out the screws holding it in place and pulled the metal panel free. The flashlight showed a square concrete tunnel, going in both directions in front of them, bundled wires clipped to the far wall and pipes bracketed below those.

"Which way?"

"Left," Sam said, looking at the schematic. The tunnel would have an access ladder four yards down to the left. To the right, the access went up, into the building and was much tighter.

Dean crawled into the narrow space and backed up to the right, waiting for Sam to get into the other side ahead of him. There was barely enough room for his brother to crawl, on hands and knees, and he tightened his grip on the shotgun, hoping the tunnel didn't get any smaller.

"Four yards then we go down a ladder and under the foundation," Sam warned him.

He nodded. "Okay."

Sam started to crawl ahead of him, and he followed slowly. The ladder was where it was supposed to be and they descended it, the tunnel below a little more roomy although they were still on hands and knees. And a trickle of water ran along the centre of the concrete pipe, making the footing slimy. _Good times_, he thought morosely, as he crawled along.

The pipe opened into a wider, square-cut dirt tunnel after fifty yards, but the number and diameter of the pipes increased, forcing them to shuffle mostly on their knees. Sam turned right at the next junction, following the plans displayed on his phone and Dean's flashlight played over the tunnel surfaces, looking for … anything. Anything that shouldn't have been there. He exhaled loudly as they turned right again. _So far, nothing_.

The next turn brought another fifty yards of the same. And the next. Sam stopped when they came to the access shaft.

"That's it. We've been through every accessible tunnel under the building."

Dean looked at him and nodded, jerking his head at the ladder. "All right."

Sam tucked his phone back into his pocket and climbed the ladder, Dean waiting for a moment then climbing up behind him. He glanced at his watch and sighed.

He crawled down the concrete tunnel after his brother, hesitating as a prickling sensation crawled down the back of his neck. Ahead of him, Sam was halfway out the access hatch when the lights hit him, flooding the interior of the tunnel.

"Alright, out," a deep voice said from the parking lot. Dean watched as Sam squinted into the light, clambering out and into the parking lot. He heard the distinctive snap of handcuffs and ducked his head. The light filled the tunnel and he heard the same voice fill the small space. "You too, out. Don't think for a minute I'm not gonna shoot if you so much as try anything."

* * *

The cell was small and grey. The bunks along each side were also small and grey. Dean looked at the bars, at the hinges of the door, at the barrel lock holding them in. With his picks and a few minutes uninterrupted time, he might have gotten them out, working blind and in reverse, but the security camera perched in the corner, and the fact that his picks were now in an envelope in some other room, ruled that out.

Sam was sitting on one of the bunks, eyes closed. Dean could see his brother's pulse beating at the hollow of his throat, the rate indicating that Sam was mad and holding it back.

So, it hadn't worked out quite as well as he would have liked. It wasn't a total loss, he thought. At least they'd eliminated something else.

When the cops had found the butane and guns, accusations of terrorism had been raised. The salt had stopped that, for the moment, anyway. Neither of them had said anything. What was there to say? They were ghosthunters?

He walked to the other bunk and sat down, swivelling around and stretching flat out, his feet just hanging off the edge. No one had offered them their phone call, and even if they had he couldn't think of anyone to call.

The jangle of keys and the heavy clunk of the lock being opened woke him. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he looked at Sam. His brother had gotten to his feet and glanced back with a shrug.

"What's going on?"

"You made bail," the deputy said, holding the door open for them.

"I thought we couldn't get bail?" Sam said, frowning. The deputy shrugged.

"Your lawyer's here and the charges were reduced to break and enter," he said, closing the door behind them.

Sam's brows had shot up as he looked at his brother. Dean spread his hands helplessly. He had no idea either.

They stopped at the counter, and the deputy handed them back their personal effects, minus the guns. The clock on the wall behind the deputy told him it was a quarter past four, in the afternoon, presumably.

From the closed office door to the right, there was a sudden burst of laughter, deep and male, spilling out into the hall as the door opened.

"Well, don't make that mistake again!" The sheriff's voice came from the office. The woman holding the door smiled.

"Don't worry, I won't," she said, turning around and looking at them as she drew it closed behind her. Dean stared back. Slender in a black suit, a dark, shining bob framing an oval face with dark brown eyes. One cheek was swollen, bruises edging out from under the small dressing. She met his gaze for a moment then looked away.

"Ma'am, you'll be responsible for the firearms?" The deputy slid a clipboard and forms toward her. She nodded, signing the declarations. He slid the shotgun and two handguns across the counter to her, and she put them into a wide-mouthed canvas bag, zipping it up.

Sam frowned at her. "Uh …"

"You ready to go?" She looked at him and gestured abruptly to the door. They nodded and walked out, Dean glancing back as she followed them, heels tapping sharply on the hard floor.

"Down the street," she said, lengthening her stride to come even with them as they came down the steps at the front of the building. "Dark blue Nova, questions later."

The Nova was parked at the end of the block and they walked to it in silence. Dean got into the front passenger seat, Sam opening the rear door behind him, as she walked around the hood and got into the driver's seat. The car pulled into the slow-moving traffic smoothly, and Dean turned to face her, brows drawn together a little.

"Ellie?"

Ellie smiled and hooked her fingers under the front of the wig, pulling it off and tossing it behind her.

"Who were you expecting?"

* * *

"How'd you find us?" Sam asked, sitting down at the table and reloading the magazine of the Taurus.

"Your phone was on, I got the signal position from the carrier and realised you probably weren't visiting the cops voluntarily when the signal didn't move for four hours," she said, easing the contacts out of her eyes and putting them into a small box on the table. "What happened?"

"We were looking for anything that the ghost might have been attached to under the building," Dean said as he opened the paper sack of food on the kitchen counter. "I thought you were in Vegas?"

"I was. I found the shifter and left at midnight," she said, closing the box when both were out and putting it into the soft leather backpack on the chair beside her. "I called Frank, but he said you hadn't called."

"What –?" Dean gestured to the side of her face.

"Just a bump," she said, turning in the chair as he handed her a burger. She unwrapped the food and took a bite. "Where're you at?"

"Nowhere," Sam said, unwrapping his sandwich and looking down at it. "It seems like Weinman's the ghost, but we can't find anything of his that could have been there, and there's no clear reason as to why he's killing people."

"We thought, if the excavations of the site stirred something of his up, it might just be vengeful stuff," Dean added, wadding up the paper wrappings and tossing them in the trash can as he sat down opposite Sam. "But there's nothing there."

"Who was the first vic?" Ellie looked at them.

"Uh …," Sam said, swallowing his mouthful and picking up the police reports. "Electrical contractor, he was working on the eighteenth floor when he was attacked."

"Does the report list what he had on him?"

"Yeah … tools, wallet, keys … nothing out of the ordinary," he said, scanning down the list. "Why?"

"Well, if he was working in the basement or under the parking lot, and he found something and took it with him, that might've been why he was attacked." Ellie reasoned, taking another bite of her burger.

"He didn't have anything on him when his body was found," Sam said, turning over the pages to the next victim. "And the next victim was found on the fourteenth floor."

"You think there's something in the building?" Dean looked at her.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging slightly. "All four victims were in the building, on different floors. Maybe it's random, unfocussed anger, or maybe the first vic found something and dropped it in the attack and someone else found it?"

"Hot potato ghost remains?" Dean asked derisively. "Wouldn't someone have found it and handed it in?"

"Maybe not. Maybe they didn't have ... time," Sam said slowly, pulling out his notebook and flipping through it. "Ruben said that his grandfather had a watch, an old-fashioned fob watch. He wore it everywhere but after he died no one ever saw it again. Said …," he hesitated, reading through the hastily written notes. "He said his father was upset because that was the one thing he'd wanted, his father's watch."

"He wasn't even in the building when the quake struck," Dean argued.

"We don't know that. Maybe he was, and he dropped it when he ran out," Sam countered, an edge to his voice. "There's nothing about the exact way it happened in the history, only that he didn't die in the building, he had a heart attack after the building collapsed."

"And this electrician found it under the building when he was running the cable and brought it back?"

"I know it's a reach but it's possible, and possible is all that's available right now," Ellie said, wiping her mouth on a serviette and wadding it up with the burger wrapping. "Has the building got a security office?"

"The police checked the tapes, they didn't find anything," Sam said, shaking his head.

"They weren't looking for what we're looking for," she remarked, getting up and going to the kitchen. "They were looking for an assailant."

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. "Do you want to get the tapes from the police or go to the source?"

"Since we've all been to the police station and I don't really feel like breaking in there just for video, I think we might have to go to the source."

"Awesome, more B&E in the same precinct," Dean sighed.

Ellie smiled. "We'll stay out of the building. We should be able to get into the network cables from the street."

* * *

The small black van was parked a block from the building, inconspicuous under the shadow of a tree. Sam looked around the interior, racks of hard drives, routers and modems, red and green LED lights blinking silently to either side. Franklin Rooney was in his mid-fifties, a short, barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper grey hair in a buzz cut, and an almost military sense of orderliness. He watched the half-sized monitors arrayed on the shelving in front of him, his face shadowed and lit by their glow. One monitor showed movement, the jerky progress of someone moving through the concrete conduit under the street, lit by a flashlight beam.

"There you are, Ellie," Frank said softly. "The blue box to your right."

Sam watched as Ellie stopped and unscrewed the front panel of the box, revealing a nest of different coloured wiring inside. She stripped the insulation from two of the wires, and set bridging clips on the exposed cable to the wireless modem she pulled from her pocket and slipped into the box.

"Lovely, that's us."

Frank entered a series of commands and brought up a directory. "Cal-Tech Security's back up network," he said absently to Sam.

* * *

Ellie flicked her mike off and leaned against the concrete side of the conduit, glancing at Dean who had scrunched himself up beside her.

"You didn't have to come in, you know," she said, hiding a smile as she watched him trying to find a place that was somewhat comfortable.

"Yeah." He shifted his leg and leaned back.

"What's going on with you and Sam?"

Dean looked at her sharply. "Nothing."

Ellie looked at the box of wiring in front of her.

After a moment, Dean added uncomfortably. "I don't know."

"You don't know … or you don't want to think about it that much?"

He snorted softly. "All of the above."

Another moment of silence passed, and he tipped his head back a little, against the curving wall behind him. "He's, uh, angry. And his psychic stuff has gotten stronger – a lot stronger, but I don't know how."

"He's been angry for a while now," she said softly. "Since you got out of Hell."

"Yeah, but this is different," he looked at her profile. "It's – I don't know – he's impatient and he's not listening."

"Not listening to –"

"Sam's got the video you wanted," Frank's voice crackled softly in their ears. "Unplug us."

Ellie leaned forward and unclipped the router, cutting small pieces of tape from a roll and covering the stripped sections of the wire neatly. She tucked the roll and the router into her pocket and shifted onto her knees as Dean turned himself around in the narrow space and started to crawl out.

He wasn't sure if he was relieved or irritated that the conversation had been cut short. Sam had been more and more driven in the last few weeks, the near-miss with Lilith last week had been frighteningly reckless, as if his brother couldn't see how things had been accelerating, forcing himself into a confrontation with the demon queen without a thought of what he'd do if she was the stronger of the two of them.

He didn't know how Sam was increasing the strength in the abilities he had. Cas didn't know either, but the angel had told him about what Sam had done to Alastair. And he knew the strength of that demon.

The upshaft opened in front of him and he climbed out of the hole, turning to watch Ellie come out behind him, the two of them lifting the manhole cover and sliding it back into place, the deep-sounding, metallic clunk loud in the quiet street.

* * *

Frank had transferred the data to a flash drive, and he handed it to Sam as they parked in front of the motel room. Inside, Sam loaded the files, scanning through the images on his laptop.

"Here, look," he said when he got to the time-stamped date of the first attack, turning the laptop around so that they could all see it.

The image was black and white, slightly grainy, but clear enough. They watched the electrician come out of the basement access panel, and turn to screw it back on. As he walked to the elevator, he was looking around, hitching his tool bag higher on his shoulder, his expression even at a distance slightly uneasy. Sam opened the elevator security file and Dean leaned forward as the man stabbed a floor button.

The air coming out of the electrician's mouth was white.

The image blurred several times, crackling into static bars and smoothing out again. The man stood with his back to the wall, as close to the button panel as he could. His eyes had narrowed as he searched the small space. When the elevator reached the floor he'd chosen, he scrambled out through the slowly widening opening quickly, looking back over his shoulder.

"It was with him," Dean said softly. Sam nodded, shifting to the next file. The camera showed another room, empty racks filling the centre.

The man pulled something from his coverall pocket, his back partially to the camera as he looked down at it, hiding the object from the camera's view. The image crackled into static abruptly, then cleared and they could see the white fog in front of his face as he turned slowly, head turning rapidly from side to side, his hand curled around something.

He stopped and his mouth opened, eyes widening as he seemed to see something that the camera couldn't. Then he convulsed, arms flung out to either side, his hands opening involuntarily and the object he'd held arcing away from him as his back arched, chest thrust forward, his head thrown back. Behind him, there was an amorphous, misty shape, wavering against the darker background of the wall and shelving. The man's face stretched into a terrified rictus, his eyes rolling back till only the whites showed. He dropped to the floor, and whatever the shape had been disappeared.

Sam shifted the image counter back to the moment where the object had been flung away. He copied the frame and loaded it into a graphic manipulation program, zooming in and sharpening the image as much as possible, adjusting the light and contrast. The resolution was poor, and the image blurry but all of them could see the round white face on side, evenly marked around the edge.

Dean looked at it and sighed. "Okay, where'd it go?"

Sam went back to the file and they watched the watch's arcing departure a dozen times. Somewhere out of the camera's range was as good as it got.

"Next victim was four weeks later," Sam said impatiently, and loaded the next set of video.

Victim two had been a leggy blonde in her early twenties, a secretary down on fourteen. On the film, she came into the office early, holding a takeout cup of coffee. Putting the beverage down on her desk, she took off her coat, turning to hang it on the coat rack against the wall.

Something caught her eye in the trash can near the coat rack, and she looked in that direction for a few moments, then leaned over to pull something out of the can. The small object lay on her hand as she studied it.

"Okay, how'd it get from eighteen down to fourteen?" Dean looked from Sam to Ellie.

Sam stared at the screen, frowning. Ellie shrugged.

"What was it doing in a trash can?" she asked. "Where are the police files?"

Sam gestured to the low table by the couch and she walked over to it, sorting through the files and sitting down. Dean looked back at the footage as the woman began to feel something, her eyes shifting nervously around the room. A moment later her breath was condensing in the air in front of her mouth and she shivered. Then her eyes widened dramatically and her body stiffened, seeming to stretch upwards, the tendons in her neck standing out like bars, her hands open and rigid. The watch fell to the floor, hitting on its edge and rolling beneath the desk.

"Sam? Do we have the footage from the hall security cameras outside the server room?"

He looked over at Ellie and nodded. "Got all of it, from the first attack to the last one," he said, glancing at Frank. "Seemed a sensible precaution."

"Can you load it? The electrician wasn't found in the server room, he was found in the hall by a construction worker," she said, looking down at the file.

"The ghost was moving the body?" Dean turned around to look at her.

"Maybe."

The hall footage loaded and they watched the body being dragged out through the door and into the hall, by no one that they could see.

"That must have given the cops something to think about," Frank smiled as he watched the bands of static cross the images. "The Invisible Man."

The body was dropped and a moment later the construction worker who'd reported finding it came down the hall.

"Now, check through the footage of the server room – see who came in there next."

Dean frowned. "Are we missing a body?"

"Someone took that watch from eighteen down to fourteen," Ellie pointed out. "Frank, can you check Missing Persons, from the date of the attack?"

Frank went out to his van and retrieved a laptop. He came back into the room and set it up on the other side of the table from Sam. It took him two minutes to access the database and he compiled the list between the dates.

"Plenty of people missing," he said sourly. "Twenty two. Any other criteria?"

"Check occupation – I'm thinking maybe cleaning staff," Ellie said, flipping over to the third victim in the file.

"Cleaning woman comes into the server room that night, and yeah," Sam said, turning to look at her. "She found the watch and put it in her pocket. Left the room straight away …" He watched the hall footage, then the elevator. "Ghost got her in the elevator."

"Why didn't anyone find her?" Dean looked at the screen, watching the woman's being dragged out of the elevator. They saw the watch fall out of the woman's coverall pocket. Sam switched to the hall and they watched the body as it was pulled down to another set of elevators at the other end.

"Juanita Alverrez, forty two, missing since March 15," Frank said to no one in particular. "Worked for the cleaning company that services the building."

Sam and Dean stared at the screen as the elevator doors opened and the body was pushed into the shaft.

"Huh," Sam said, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah." Dean looked over his shoulder at Ellie. "The watch fell out into the elevator."

Sam loaded the elevator's footage as Ellie flipped back to the secretary's report.

"Candice Jones was found in her boss' office by another early co-worker," she said, looking up.

"So the victims who were found almost immediately interrupted the ghost from getting rid of the bodies. The ones who weren't …" He looked at Sam.

"How many vics has this thing taken?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Here's another one."

The footage on screen showed a young man getting into the elevator, looking down after he'd chosen his floor and crouching down to the pick up the watch. The lit button on the panel was fourteen.

"Thing's like a one-spirit death squad," Dean said sourly. "Since when do ghosts try and cover up their killings?"

He watched the young man looking around, pulling his coat collar up as the temperature in the elevator dropped. The doors opened onto the fourteenth floor and he ran, ducking and dodging through the open plan office desks and cubicles, his eyes wide with terror and breath misting out in front of him with every panicked exhale.

"Well, at least he tried something," Frank looked at the silent chase with raised brows.

The man slammed through the doors leading to the private offices, and shut it behind him, looking wildly around for another way out. He ran into the office of the secretary and skidded to a halt by her desk, his face whitening in shock at something only he could see, and he looked down at the watch in his hand, flinging it wildly to one side as he tried to turn around. The watch landed in the trash can. The man was thrust forward and he fell heavily to the floor, disappearing out of the camera's view behind the desk, only his hands still visible as he scrabbled for purchase on the short carpet. They clenched into fists, knuckles showing white through the skin, then relaxed.

"Victim number three, also unaccounted for," Dean said morosely, watching the body dragged out of the office and back through the open office area.

"Why didn't security pick up these deaths? Why didn't the cops look through all the footage?" Sam scowled at the images.

"Ah … apparently Mr Weinman was having some financial difficulties with cash flow. He canned the security company in early March. No more guards, no one watching the cameras. Must have figured that the cameras alone were enough of a deterrent. Civilians are such assholes," Frank said, looking at the banking details of the ghost's grandson. "The cops wouldn't have looked through days of footage without a body. They took copies of the relevant film for each body."

"There are two bodies somewhere in the building – they must be stinking things up by now?" Dean looked at him.

Frank shrugged. "Depends on where they are? Bottom of the unfinished, unused elevator shaft? Maybe no one went down there? I don't know."

"Alright, we've accounted for the watch up to Ms Jones," Sam said, running his hand sharply through his hair. "And the watch has to be in the building somewhere, because we've got at least two more victims."

"At least," Ellie agreed. "Have a look at the footage of the last vic. Let's see if we can see where it went."

"What do we do about the bodies?" Dean looked at her. "Call the cops?"

"After we've found and burned the watch, yeah. Anonymous tip might be the best way."

* * *

Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw tiredly as Frank's van pulled away, seeing the paling of the eastern sky with some surprise. In all, there had been seven victims, not four. Three bodies somewhere in the unfinished sections of the building. And the last known location of the watch, on the twelfth floor, under a photocopying machine, they thought.

He stretched and closed the door, turning around and seeing Sam and Ellie, sitting close together on the couch as they looked at the files. The sight irritated him for some reason.

"FBI visit?"

"And when we pull out the salt and burn the watch?" Sam said, a mocking edge to his voice.

Ellie stood up, tipping her head back and straightening her back. "The watch is on the eighth floor. We could go in tonight after the cleaning crew have been through, take out the camera system and find it and burn it. All fixed by morning."

Sam rose as well. "I agree, Dean. You might only need four hours a night, but I'm wasted."

Dean looked away as Ellie's gaze sharpened on him at the comment, nodding.

"I'll see you guys later," she said, picking up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. She walked past Dean to the door, and opened it, stepping out and closing it behind her.

He watched as Sam picked up his jacket, pulling it on. "Where are you going?"

"For a walk. Just down the hill, get some fresh air," Sam said. "You want some coffee?"

He nodded warily. "Sure. Yeah, thanks."

"I'll get some on the way."

He moved to the couch as the door shut behind Sam, watching his brother walking out of the parking lot through the partially opened curtains. It was something Sam had been doing more and more lately. Going out, usually with some flimsy excuse, getting away. He had a pretty good idea of what Sam was doing. He just didn't know why. Or why his brother was lying to him about it.

His gaze dropped to the stacks of reports, notes, photographs and plans on the table. Well, he'd been right. Definitely a job. The thought brought little satisfaction. Sam's mind wasn't on the job, not all the time, not the way it used to be. Still thinking about killing Lilith, he guessed. His own instincts were yelling at him to leave Lilith alone. At least for now. They would kill her when they were ready, not going in half-cocked and letting emotion run the show.

He sat down on the couch and dropped his head into his hands tiredly. Sam was slipping away from him, and he couldn't work out how or why, exactly. And he couldn't figure out a way to get his brother's attention back, to make him listen to reason. He wondered vaguely if Ellie would have any ideas on that. She was objective, more objective than he was at the moment.

* * *

"I don't do field work, you know that, Ellie." Frank looked at her, mouth set mulishly.

"Not going in, Frank, just routing our comms and a bit of advance warning if anything happens out here," Ellie said patiently, checking the load in her gun, and tucking another box of shells into her jacket pocket. "That's all."

"I'm not crawling around tunnels," he warned her. She repressed the urge to roll her eyes and looked at him steadily.

"No. No tunnels."

"Alright."

Sam looked at his brother, mouth tucked in at the corners. Dean gave him a barely visible shrug as he put the canister of salt in his pocket and took the throat mike and earpiece from Ellie.

"Same way we got in last time?"

She nodded, handing him a pair of latex gloves, passing another pair to Sam. "This time, no prints, okay?"

Dean looked down at the smooth, thin gloves. "Kinky."

* * *

The building was lit with emergency lighting only, the soft glow of the Exit signs and occasional hall lights making the floors dim and shadowy. They took the elevator to eight, and got out, looking around. At over ten thousand square feet per floor, there were a myriad of possibilities for the location of the watch. It was under a photocopier, or at least appeared to be in the video. The only question was … which copier and where was it?

"Split up?" Sam looked at Ellie and his brother.

"We'll have to," Dean agreed. "Just looking. No going near it until we're all there."

Ellie nodded and turned right, heading up the hall to the end. Sam turned left and Dean stared at the office door in front of him with a deep exhale. The cleaning crews had left the building an hour ago. They should have at least eight hours before anyone else turned up.

He went from room to room, opening doors, crawling around cupboards, looking under them, seeing photocopiers everywhere.

"How many goddamned copiers does one company need anyway?" he muttered as he saw another one in the next office.

He heard Sam's snort through the earpiece and scowled.

"Relax," Ellie's voice was muffled. "Think I've found it."

"Don't touch it, don't even go near it," Dean said, head snapping as he spun around and headed for the main hall. "Where are you?"

"Three right-hand turns from the door at the end of the hall we started in," Ellie said. "In an office next to the kitchen."

"Sam, you got that?"

"Got it," Sam's voice rose and fell as he ran.

Dean retraced his turns to the hall and ran, hearing Sam's thumping footsteps distantly. He came through the end door and took the three rights, seeing the kitchen, which was little more than an alcove in one corner.

"Ellie, I'm at the kitchen," he said, looking around.

"Look at the fridge, then turn left," she answered and he did, seeing a waving flashlight beam through the frosted glass of the office door. He pushed the door open. She sat on the floor, light directed under the cupboard. Crouching he caught a glimpse of gold, lit up by the beam.

"Great, we can –" he started to say when the temperature dropped, his breath turning to star whispers which fell to the carpet with a faint tinkling noise, the cold gripping him like a force.

Ellie's shotgun barrel came up at once and she swivelled on one knee, scanning around the room. She saw a shadow in the corner and blasted, and for a second, the temperature rose a little, and Dean could move again. He lifted his gun, one hand wiping at his face and seeing the ice crystals sparkling on his fingers as it came away.

_Serious ghost._

The cold returned, fierce and biting and taking his breath and there was a blackening sideways wrench, a sensation of the ground dropping away from him, his eyes open but blind, a pressure that beat at his skull, throbbing in the hollows and cavities until he felt like vomiting.

He hit the ground and the air exploded from his lungs, driven out by the impact, vision returning, along with the sound of the gun barrel clanging on a bare concrete floor.

"What the –" He rolled over, looking around in disbelief. He was on one of the high floors, the ones that hadn't been finished yet, the fresh breeze stirring his hair and clothes, filling his nose with the salt tang of the ocean. Ellie was on her knees to one side of him, spitting and coughing, the sour scent of vomit blown towards him then away.

"You okay?"

She nodded, wiping her mouth. "Yeah, just dizzy for a second."

"How'd we get up here?"

"I don't think our ghost liked the odds against," she said dryly, getting to her feet. "Where was Sam?"

"Still coming down the main hallway – shit," he turned around, looking for the elevator.

"There, in the corner," Ellie said, pointing at the enclosed shaft with the barrel of her gun.

They ran toward it, footsteps slapping loudly on the concrete floor. The doors hadn't yet been installed on this floor and Dean peered down into the black shaft, then looked up. It was just as dark above them as it was below.

"I can't stay here, I gotta get down there," he looked at Ellie, and swung himself around into the shaft, fingers gripping the upright tightly as he felt around beneath him for a foothold.

The machinery roared into life, the greased cable moving and a clanking squeal coming from the rails above.

"Dean, the lift is above you!" Ellie yelled, her arm flashing out to him, gripping his wrist and pulling back. He half jumped, half fell onto the floor as the metal box stopped on their floor, mirrored interior lit only by the lights of the buttons.

"Dean? Ellie?" Sam's voice sounded tinnily in their ears. "Where the fuck are you?"

"On twenty two, I think," Ellie said clearly, looking at the reversed image of the lit button in the mirror at the back of the lift as Dean got to his feet.

"I'm on two. I don't know how I got here." Sam sounded frustrated. "Can you get down?"

"Uh, not at this minute. Having some problems with the elevator," she said, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sam, get Frank. Don't try and get back up to the watch without someone backing you up," he said loudly.

"Yeah, I got that." They heard the huff of his breath. "Can you get down?"

Dean looked at Ellie. "Maybe."

"There're fire stairs, at least two sets, but that limits us," she agreed.

A blast of squealing static hit the earpieces and both Dean and Ellie yanked them out.

"No communication now?" He pulled out his cell and looked at it. The case had a long crack down the centre, where he'd landed on it. "Awesome."

Ellie pulled out hers. It seemed intact. She dialled Sam's number and waited. The phone began to ring. She thought she heard Sam's voice when the shrieking scream of static burst from the speaker and she pulled it away from her ear, hitting the end call button. Dean looked down at it.

"No comms," she said, putting the phone back in her pocket and looking up at him. "Fire stairs it is."

"Looks like it," he said, turning with her as she headed toward the far end of the floor. "What the hell, it's only twenty floors."

"At least we're going down," Ellie added with a half-smile.

The closest stairwell sat on the western side of the building. Dean looked at the metal door in frustration. It was bowed in the centre, the hinges pushed deep into the metal frame that supported it, the lock twisted and pushed into the frame on the other side.

"Not getting out this way," he said acidly. Ellie looked at the gaps at the top and bottom of the doors, the thick metal had been stretched judging by the fatigue marks. She turned around and started back across the floor and Dean followed her slowly, thinking that they were going to find the same thing on the other side. The ghost really didn't want them involved, at least not until it'd taken care of his brother. That sent a shiver down his spine.

The other door was similarly mangled. He tried a drop-kick, the door booming like a gong as his foot hit it, but it didn't move. The elevator doors of the lift they'd come up in were open, but nothing would induce him to set foot in the lift. The second elevator shaft was empty seemingly, but they didn't know where the car was, it could've been above them or below, either way, they would squashed if the ghost decided to move it while they were in the shaft.

He watched Ellie walk to the open edge of the floor. The walls on the three sides of the floor hadn't yet been boxed in, the thick metal frames shrouded and webbed with cables and conduit as the electrical work had been completed. She leaned out over the edge and he closed his eyes briefly. She was still there when he opened them, leaning out into the night air, the wind lifting and teasing the stray lock of hair that had escaped from the long braid down her back. He walked a little closer to the edge.

"Any way down?"

"Sure, until level twenty. The rest is sealed up tight." She pulled herself back in and leaned up against the frame, a small crease appearing between her brows.

"Our easiest way out is going to be the elevator shaft – the unused one. There'll be access points to each of the floors, to the vents."

"And we could be mashed like bugs on a windshield if the car moves," he said reasonably.

"Yeah, there's always that."

Under their feet, the building trembled. They looked at each other with widening eyes.

"Earthquake?"

"I don't know," Ellie said, watching the metal frame shivering. Dean stepped forward and gripped her arm above the elbow, pulling her back, away from the edge. He released her as they moved back to the centre of the floor. Ellie pulled out her phone, searching for a site.

"No reports of a tremor," she said after a moment, looking at him. "Not even a little one."

"What are you looking at?"

"Northern California Seismic Network," she answered absently, looking down at the phone.

"What?" Dean looked at her expression, at the small smile lifting one side of her mouth as she began to type. She shook her head slightly and kept typing. After a moment, a new message appeared on the screen. She looked up at him and held it out.

"Fire stairs undamaged here. Frank made it up to 2. We're going to 3." The text message was from Sam's phone. He grinned a little at her, and nodded.

"We'll try and co-ordinate it with them, start down the shaft when they're close and the attention is on them?"

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed readily. "So that tremor, that wasn't recorded?"

"Didn't seem to be. Their equipment is sensitive enough to register even the smallest movements, and they didn't get it."

"That was just for us then? A, um, hallucination or illusion or whatever?" He thought about the way the metal frame had hummed against the loom of the city. "Seemed pretty fucking real."

"Yeah, but mind-games, they do, don't they?" Ellie sat down on the floor and leaned against the concrete pillar behind her, setting her phone onto the ground beside her. Dean looked down at her for a moment then dropped to the floor as well. The greenish-white light of the Exit sign next to the lift shaft lit up one side of her face, and he frowned as he saw a dark line down her cheek, from under the dressing.

"You bleeding?"

Ellie reached up and touched her fingers to the line, feeling the wetness. "Must have opened that cut again. It's only shallow, just over the bone."

He frowned at her. "You want me to take a look at it?"

"No. It's really nothing," she said. "Probably looks worse than it is."

"What happened?"

For a moment, she looked away, her face smooth and expressionless. Then she shrugged. "The shifter had a couple of people, held down in the sub-basement of this old casino. It changed into one of them, and I couldn't risk the shot until I knew that it was the shifter, not the woman he'd trapped."

He nodded. She would've had to have gone in close, to see that. With a knife. And close-quarters fighting was always risky. They were immensely strong monsters, perhaps four or five times stronger than a normal man. He wondered how she'd gotten in close enough to get her proof and out again without anything worse than the cut on her face. From the shuttered look of her face, he doubted she'd tell him any more detail.

"You shouldn't be hunting alone." He looked away, unsure of where that'd come from. He didn't usually advise other hunters what or how to hunt. Especially not those who were plainly competent enough to have survived as well as she had.

She smiled, one-sided to avoid pulling at the cut, but laughter filled her eyes.

"I just can't find anyone dumb enough to partner up with me, Dean," she said lightly.

"Why don't you work with Laney?" He looked at her in exasperation. Hunting alone was a really good way to die fast.

"She's working with Moses and Jeremy," she said, flicking a sideways look at him.

"Oh."

"Anyway, if I'm on my own, I don't have to worry about anyone else," she said softly. "Don't have to think about anyone else, or protect them, or deal with them."

He tipped his head back against the pillar, closing his eyes. That was the truth. He could hardly remember working on his own, now. He could feel the weight of the responsibility he felt for Sam, the worry and the fear and the constant memory of his father's words, echoing in his mind. He listened to the silence stretching out, and knew that she'd offered the opening for him to talk about what was worrying him, about his brother, about the things that lay between them.

"How could Sam's – powers, abilities, whatever you want to call them – be getting so much stronger?" he asked her, finally.

"How much stronger?"

He exhaled deeply. He didn't want to tell her about Alastair. What the demon had said to him. The razor-sharp pain of that was still cutting him. He couldn't bury it, it wouldn't stay down.

"Uh, he tore a demon apart, a-a senior demon, a few weeks ago. Burned it alive in the meatsuit as if he'd stabbed with the demon-knife," he said, hearing all the holes in the short summary, and hoping she wouldn't ask about them. Even the demon-knife hadn't touched Alastair, but Sam had.

"Practise, I guess," Ellie said, not looking at him, her head resting on her arms, crossed over her knees. "The mind is a muscle, it needs to be developed slowly but the power it can produce eventually, with training, with dedication, that's probably somewhere along the line of infinite, you know."

Which was fine, except that since he'd gotten out of Hell, and seen what Sam had learned to do, his brother hadn't been practising, not the sort of practise or training regime that would account for the incredible leap in power.

"He hasn't – he doesn't really do that," he said, chewing on the corner of his lip as he looked at her. "There hasn't been the time or hell, the opportunity."

"There are some things, in myth, in lore, that are supposed to be able to kick start or increase the powers of the mind," she said slowly, lifting her head to look at him. "But I don't know that they'd apply here. They're not all that well-documented."

"How do I make him see that this isn't a good thing, what he's doing – however it is he's doing it?" He looked at her helplessly. "The angels aren't happy with him – oh hell."

He got to his feet suddenly, reaching down to her and taking her hand. "God, I forgot about Cas, he can take us down."

Ellie looked at him, picking up her phone as he bowed his head.

"Cas? Castiel, I need your help," he murmured softly, eyes shut. "You around, man?"

The sound of wings in the enclosed and hard-surfaced space was loud. Ellie spun around.

"What is it?" Castiel looked at Dean impatiently, nodding vaguely in Ellie's direction as he recognised her. Ellie nodded back.

"We're hunting a ghost –," Dean said hurriedly. "This is gonna take too long to explain. Can you zap us down to the eighth floor?"

"You need me to move you down fourteen floors?" The angel's brows rose. "Did something happen to your legs?"

"It's complicated. And we don't have much time." Dean scowled at him.

"We're trying to prevent the breaking of the Seals –"

"And the longer you stand there coming up with excuses, the longer it'll be before we can all go back to what we're supposed to doing!" Dean snapped.

Ellie's mouth compressed as she bit back a snort of laughter. The angel turned sharply to look at her, as if he'd heard anyway. He reached out and gripped both their shoulders.

Dean shook his head as the sound of wings disappeared. Ellie looked around. They were in the main hall of the eighth floor. She started to run for the end, hearing Dean's heavier footfalls thudding on the carpet behind her.

The entire area surrounding the office that held the watch was coated in frost, sparkling dimly in the little light on the floor. It hurt to breathe, the cold air biting deep into their lungs, and she felt her face tightening as the little moisture left in the room coated her in fine ice crystals.

The kitchen was encrusted in white, and they looked at the door to the office, hesitating for a moment. Ellie would be faster, Dean thought, taking out the salt canister and butane bottle and passing it to her. He would watch for the ghost. He saw the same realisation in her eyes, and she nodded once, then they both raced for the door, Ellie going in a half-second ahead of him, diving and rolling to the copier cupboard, her hand sliding under it and sweeping across the carpet, feeling the frigid metal scooped up as she twisted herself around. The building started to shake, then roll, the floor lifting and dropping suddenly.

Dean stood over her, keeping his balance as the floor moved, telling himself it was just a trick, an illusion to scare them into leaving. He saw Ellie drop the watch into the circle of salt and squirt the lighter fluid over it, the ice on the carpet melting under the liquid, the carpet darkening as she poured more on.

He heard her gasp, and turned, seeing her lighter drop from nerveless fingers as her body arched toward him, head thrown back and he took a long stride beside her, both barrels firing their shells into the air behind her, her body dropping sideways as the ghost released her, the building's walls cracking and splitting behind her, the ceiling panels starting to fall as the temblor strengthened.

The lighter lay on the floor beside the circle and he picked it up, lighting it and dropping it onto the soaked fob watch as the cold invaded his chest, the ghost of Harold Weinman manifesting in front of him, dark eyes deep in the sockets, dark hair brushed back from the forehead, lips stretched out wide and a gust of dry, dusty air, like an exhale, blowing onto his face.

"_This is mine …I trusted them but they betrayed me. My own family. My own flesh and blood."_

The words whispered against his skin, and his heart was slowing down, he couldn't feel anything, there was too much cold, too much frozen inside of him.

The first blast brought warmth back to his chest. When he heard the second, he felt the strength supporting him disappear and he dropped to his knees, watching the fire burning fiercely around the watch, the glass face cracked and blackened, the soft brass of the casing beginning to sag a little in the heat of the flames. The building had stopped moving. He looked up, seeing ordinary walls, ordinary ceiling panels. No cracks, or splits. Nothing broken.

He turned his head and saw Sam striding across the room, the frost disappearing as he got closer, Frank following close behind him. Dean looked down at Ellie and saw her cough, then shiver, her eyes opening and meeting his for a moment before she rolled over onto her knees.

* * *

The day was warm, the sea breeze light, making the palm fronds sway a little, their shadows sashaying back and forth over the asphalt parking lot. Dean looked up and down the street and finally saw her, leaning against a railing that overlooked the harbour, the sunlight glancing off the bright copper of her hair. He walked down the street, feeling the stiffness in his side easing a little with the slow exercise.

Ellie looked around as he stopped beside her. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Sam's gone to call in the body locations to the cops." He stared at the light, fractured and scattered as it danced over the light chop, breathing the salt-laden air in deeply. "How do I make him listen, Ellie? Make him understand that the way he's going … it's not the right way, it's going to –"

She turned away as he cut himself off, his voice strained, ducking his head away. Moistening her lips, she could taste the salt on them.

"I don't think you can. You can be around, you can watch his back," she said, turning her head to look at him. "You think he can do it? Kill Lilith?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe. But using the psychic stuff – that's not the way to do it."

"The knife probably won't, you know," she said quietly. "And the stuff we needed to do it properly – that all burned up with my truck."

"I know."

"How many more seals?"

"Less than a dozen, I think," he said, leaning against the rail and looking at her. The bruising on her face was black and blue, edging up to her eye and into her hairline, the bright white dressing standing out against it.

"If Lucifer gets free, we're going to have a lot more problems than what Sam's doing," she reminded him gently.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure, yet," she said, looking away. "There might be a job in Tennessee, I haven't heard back."

For a moment, he looked at her, seeing the smooth, creamy skin, long dark red lashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. He wanted to tell her, he realised. Tell her a lot of things. He wanted to tell her about his family, and his past. He wondered briefly what she'd heard about him and Sam, what other hunters knew about them, if anything.

"Have you seen Ellen lately?" he asked, suppressing the urge to stand there and watch her and spill his guts.

"Yeah, a couple of months ago," Ellie said, nodding. "She was looking at some disappearances in Georgia."

"She alright?"

"Yeah, she's good. Jo's with her."

"Good." He didn't want the details, just wanted to know that they were okay. Hadn't died while he hadn't been looking.

The silence between them wasn't peaceful or empty anymore, he thought. It felt like there was a lot that wasn't being said, all of a sudden. He straightened up, pushing himself off the rail.

"I'd better get going," he said, feeling awkward. Usually she was the one packing the car and taking off. She kept her gaze on the ocean for a moment longer then looked at him.

"I'll see you around."

"Yeah." He turned away, and started to walk back to the motel. Nothing had changed; she hadn't had a magic solution for him, a way to talk to his brother. He felt better in spite of that. He stopped and looked back, seeing her still leaning there, looking at the harbour. A car drove down past her and a flock of seagulls rose up from the road below and flew down the harbour, their mournful cries filling …


	8. Chapter 8 Lingering in Silence

**Chapter 8 Lingering in Silence**

* * *

_**Ocala, Florida 2002**_

… the night air was alive with the cries of the loons, the harsh bark of an alligator, somewhere deep in the swamp that lay behind the motel. Dean woke and rubbed a hand over his face, glancing down at the girl lying next to him. He couldn't remember her name, could hardly remember what she looked like, the thin moonlight slatting over the bed from the window showing a slim body, and a spill of straight, dark hair over the pillow beside him, but little else.

He got up silently and pulled on his clothes, padding into the bathroom in socks and closing the door before he switched on the light. He'd been in town for three days, and he hadn't found a solid lead on what the hell was taking children from the area.

Turning on the tap, he splashed the tepid water over his face and through his hair. The air was heavy and thick, laden with moisture and heat and the previous evening had been a decompression, of sorts, he thought. Shedding the building tension that he wasn't going to find anything. The latest newspaper report said a little boy had vanished two nights ago and, like the local police, he'd found zero to follow up on.

He dried his face and turned off the light, opening the door and returning to the bed. His boots and jacket lay on the floor and he picked them up, looking at the girl for a moment before turning away. He left the room quietly and sat on the shallow steps that led from the rooms down to the parking lot to pull on his boots.

Walking down to the car, he listened to the sounds of the swamp and the night around him. It was noisy down here in the hours of darkness. Bird cries and rustles of the heavy undergrowth, the endless frog song and the buzz and whine of insects; he heard a short, deep growl and a splash as something entered the water, to his right, beyond the line of lawn and trees that marked the motel's ever-changing boundary as nature relentlessly pressed closer.

The car added its deep rumble to the other sounds and he pulled out slowly, following the highway slightly west of south, back to his motel. The headlights lit up the black road and he saw a fox cross ahead of him, tail-tip bright in the wash of light. Not one child had been found, and that wasn't so surprising in a place like this. There was an embarrassment of possible grave sites or dumping grounds for bodies, in the water or on dry land, and an unlimited number of predators and scavengers ready to clean up anything that was left out in the forest and swamp.

* * *

He saw the flickering neon light ahead and slowed down, pulling into the lot and parking in front of his room. On the table, a stack of files, notes and reports were piled up and he looked at them as he dropped his jacket on the chair, going to the fridge to get a cold beer.

The town had been normal until the Christmas of last year, when the first two children had disappeared. Over the past eleven months, six more had vanished. The cops thought it was a sexual serial, calling in the FBI's BSU consultants. The feds had searched around with no success for three months and left, and the next child had disappeared a week later.

He put the beer on the table and sat down, pushing several of the files to one side. He might've been inclined to agree with the cops' opinions if he hadn't gone to Orlando to check the one small lead he'd found. The computer search of the area between that city and Gainesville to the north and Daytona to the east had brought up a number of missing children. He wasn't sure why law enforcement hadn't picked up on the multiple cases, other than the local jurisdictions were probably not cooperating or telling each other. He'd done a few runs out to the affected towns and the patterns had been the same. And the first child to go missing, in Shadow Crossings, had been in 1964. Prior to the abduction, there had been grave desecrations over a period five years. Graves and tombs opened, the bodies removed. No one had ever been charged with the desecrations and after the first child was taken, they'd stopped. Completely.

At first, the pattern had repeated in the next town, and the next. Cemeteries disturbed, bodies taken. Then a child. Then more children. Then nothing. Until the next town. In 1971, the pattern had changed. There had been no more bodies taken from the local boneyards. Just the kids. Except that there'd been a disturbed grave here in town. It hadn't matched that pattern, the body had been taken in between the abductions, but it had matched his pattern, the one in his head.

He had a pretty good idea of what he was hunting. But nothing to go on to tell him where the monster was. He wasn't sure if it was moving around, or just hunting further afield, going out from a central base. He glanced at the maps that were pinned to the walls of the room, criss-crossed with string to show a dozen possible locations that were central to most of the towns that had been hit. He'd been to every one and found nothing.

He looked at the photographs pinned alongside the locations on the map. Maybe some of those kids had been taken by something else, for a different reason, he thought unhappily. It still left a lot. A helluva lot.

* * *

Pulling out his press pass, Dean walked into the police station and flashed it at the desk sergeant.

"Hey, Marty. Man, you look like I feel," Deputy Colin Harper said as he nodded at the pass, pressing the buzzer to let the reporter through. "Where'd you end up?"

Dean grinned at him. "Someplace at the other end of town," he remarked lightly, gesturing toward the office at the end of the hall. "Chief in?"

"Yep, go through." Deputy Harper nodded as he turned back to the desk. "Talk soft, he's got a hangover."

Still smiling slightly, Dean walked down to the office. He'd had an easy time getting in tight with the cops here, their confusion about what was going on their town could've made things much harder, but he'd been careful to be sympathetic to their efforts, and when he'd inadvertently stopped a mugging two days ago, he'd gained respect and trust that was now priceless.

He knocked softly on the half-glass door and heard a growling mutter from inside.

Jeremy Warne, Sheriff, was a big man, broad-shoulders over a wide chest, dark blonde hair going to grey slowly, fair skin and grey eyes normally clear. This morning he looked up from his hunched position over his desk at Dean, skin blotchy and eyes bloodshot, grizzled blonde and grey stubble spreading over his jaw and cheeks.

"Dammit, Marty, what do you want at this ungodly hour?" he mumbled, squinting at his watch then looking up at Dean.

Dean put a tall cardboard take-out cup of extra strong coffee on the desk in front of the man and sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Morning, chief," he said, one-sided smile sympathetic.

"Don't 'morning' me," Warne said sourly, pulling the cup closer and opening the lid. "You want to see the latest file, I take it?"

Dean nodded, leaning back in the chair.

The sheriff swallowed half the coffee in one gulp. "Should never work down here, Marty, swamp takes bodies and just makes 'em disappear completely," he said, looking down at the desk. So far they hadn't been able to recover a single one of the missing children, dead or alive. "People can't live like that, not knowing what happened. Never knowing what happened."

He looked up at Dean. "All those kids. Those families. Never knowing. It's not right."

"We'll make it right, then, chief," Dean said, leaning forward. "Won't we?"

Warne's eyes widened slightly as he looked at the young man sitting in front of him. For a moment, there was a crackle of energy around him, between them, he didn't know what it was, only that in it he could feel a surge of power, of will and determination and fury that made him wonder who – exactly – the young reporter was. The dark green eyes were alight with an irresistible force. He straightened in his chair, hand shifting back, almost knocking the coffee cup over.

Then it was gone. Dean sat back, one brow raised quizzically as he looked at him and he was just a young man again, dressed in jeans and a shirt and jacket, a dark shadow of stubble over his jaw.

"Yeah," Warne said softly, wondering if that was a part of the hangover. "Yeah, we will." He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling tiredness seeping back into him. "File's in Records. Doug'll let you in."

"Thanks," Dean stood up. "Try some food and B12."

"Huh," Warne grunted, closing his eyes as he finished the coffee. "Get outta here."

* * *

He took the file and the boxes of bagged evidence the cops had collected to the interview room and set them down on the table, sitting down and opening the file, head resting on his hand as he went through the type-written report and looked over the scene photographs.

Aaron Lightner had gone missing from his home at six o'clock in the evening. It'd still been daylight and his father had found his bike, lying abandoned in the street, when he'd come home from work. His mother hadn't realised the boy was missing, he usually rode with his friends until dark or dinnertime. The police had interviewed the four boys that Aaron generally hung out with. All four had said that the boy had left them around a quarter to six and headed home.

He looked through the evidence bags, matching the physical evidence to the scene photos. One of them held a few crumbling particles of soil, white, and it corresponded to a patch on the road near where the bike had been found. _Seen that before_, he thought suddenly, getting up and going back to the evidence room.

"You finished with those, Marty?" Doug asked as he came back in.

"Not quite," Dean said tersely. "Can I have a look at the evidence bags of the McMillan abduction as well?"

Doug raised an eyebrow. "You found something?"

He shook his head. "Not sure yet."

"Okay, give me a minute." The deputy turned away and walked into the cage. He found the box and pulled it out, pushing a form across the counter as he put it down. Dean signed the form and grabbed the box, walking back to the interview room. He'd seen that white soil before.

Five minutes later he took both boxes and the file back to Doug and handed them over. A small sample of the white soil was in his pocket, enclosed in a plastic ziplock bag. He lifted his hand as he walked out of the station and pushed out through the doors to the street.

The black car started immediately, and Dean followed the street to the highway, turning left to get the interstate down to Orlando. He needed a university.

* * *

"Kaolin," Professor Albrecht looked at him over a pair of glasses in heavy tortoiseshell plastic frames. "Found throughout Florida."

Dean felt his heart sink slightly. "So, uh, common then?"

"No, by no means," Albrecht handed him the printed breakdown of the sample. "Most of the sources big enough to be commercial up near Georgia. We see occasional smaller deposits around the swamplands, under certain geological conditions. Generally speaking too small to be of any use for manufacturing or mining."

"What conditions?" Dean asked, wondering if he was clutching at straws. _Why hadn't Warne follow up the clay samples?_

"Generally speaking in a low pressure, highly acidic location." Albrecht gestured vaguely.

"In English, doc, what am I looking for?" Dean said patiently.

"Wetland that's been undisturbed, in a sedimentary basin," Albrecht explained, smiling at Dean's reaction. "Here."

He turned away and walked to a cabinet with shallow, wide drawers, opening the top one and pulling out a map. Dean followed him to the table where Albrecht spread out the map.

"Locally, there are a few possibilities," the professor smoothed the map out and his finger stabbed at the Ocala forest. "You'll only get trees that can grow in a highly acid, compacted soil growing near a deposit, sand pine and the swamp hardwoods, for example."

Dean leaned over the map. "What are those?"

Albrecht frowned at where he was pointing, pushing his glasses higher up his face. "Those are possibilities. The area was thermally mapped for dense clay deposits. Here." He tapped the map near the edge of the forest. "And here, they thought they might have deposits deep enough for mining, but they petered out." The second location was in the depths of the wetlands that lay on the eastern border of the town. "This was back in the sixties, mind you but you'll probably find some signs of a mining exploration setup there."

Dean looked up at him. "Thanks, that's a help."

"Anytime," Albrecht picked up the map and returned it to the drawer.

* * *

The Impala pulled into the gravel and dirt parking lot of the diner, and he found a spot near the door. He'd been eating here since he'd arrived, and he walked in, taking a seat at the counter and looking around. Etta Marrin ran the place. Had lived here her whole life.

"Marty, the usual?" She came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the flowered apron that covered her front, looking at him.

He nodded. "You ever hear of a mining exploration camp around here, Etta?"

She looked up from the order pad in surprise. "Changing careers, Marty?"

He shook his head. "No, just looking for something."

"There was a company came through in the, uh, early sixties, I think. Set up somewhere in Little Eagle swamp, looking for some kind of clay, I think," she said slowly, putting the order on the clip and hitting the bell for the cook. "Uh … Francis?"

She looked over to a table by the window, where two old men were reading their newspapers and drinking coffee. "What was that company, set up over in Little Eagle?"

"Barton's Mining," Francis turned his head slowly to her, rheumy blue eyes focussing gradually. "Looking for rare clays, they were. Lost a fella on the job, somehow, I seem to remember."

"That's them," Etta said, nodding. "Where'd they set up?"

"Off Tremers Road, 'bout five miles in, I think," Francis said, glancing down at his cup on the table. "Could use a refill, Etta."

"Coming right up," she said, looking at Dean over her shoulder as she picked up the pot of coffee. "That what you're after?"

Dean smiled. "Sure is."

In the steamy climate, there might not be too much left, he thought, watching her walk around the counter and go to the table absently. But the timing was close to perfect. Too close. And the location … he thought of the map in his room … Tremers Road wasn't exactly central but it was still within the area of possibility.

"What happened to the guy the company lost?" he asked Etta as she returned the pot to the burner.

"Gator took him as I recall. Must have been a big one," she said, taking a clean cup down and pouring him a coffee. "They looked for a few days, but that swamp, it was hard to get through, had to do everything by boat."

By boat. The patterns of attack became much clearer. He'd been looking at land access, but by boat the labyrinth of the swamps and bayous and small ponds and lakes and rivers led much further afield. And every house where the children had disappeared had been close to some body of water.

He finished the breakfast and left a twenty on the counter, winking at her expression of pleased surprise as he left.

* * *

Dean looked at the map on the wall and pulled out the strings. He put them up again, this time marking the accessible waterways. _Yep, made a big difference_. He stood back when he'd finished. Every single location had a way back to Little Eagle swamp, if you were in a boat.

He turned away from the map and the photographs and picked up the phone book from the nightstand. His nerves were humming quietly, energy fluxing through him as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled the first of the rental places on the lake.

* * *

There was still an hour to sunset, but in the swamp, the light was a dim grey-green, filtered to early darkness by the canopies of the trees that arched overhead, by the rampant undergrowth that filled the banks, interwoven and tangled with vines. The outboard engine seemed inordinately loud in the deep quiet of the waterway, despite the hoots, calls and cries of the birds and animals he disturbed in passing.

The boat was a small tin can, a twelve-foot long, aluminium, flat-bottomed punt with a twenty horsepower engine on the stern and a five gallon subsidiary tank of gas just forward of the middle thwart. He'd made his way up through the twisting channels, following a fishing map the owner had given him, thanking whatever powers were looking out for him that his sense of direction was honed and accurate. The swamp looked the same in every direction and he could see how easy it would be to get lost in here.

He'd found the aerial photographs of the area on the library computers. He couldn't zoom in close enough to see how much of the old camp was left, or what shape the buildings were in, but he'd memorised the location and the layout, the distance from the road, and the shapes of the visible stretches of water. Looking at it, he knew that what he was after was there. Had been there the whole time.

A splash came from the other side of the stream and his head snapped around, seeing the ripples spreading out, and a little further away, the grey, knobbled back of the reptile as it swam off, heading in the other direction, tail curving sinuously from side to side, propelling it through the water. The insect repellent he'd coated himself in wasn't having much effect on the local population of mosquitoes and midges, he thought, slapping a hand against another small, dark form that had settled on his forearm. And he had another mile to go.

Mitchell Hennessy. The man who'd been taken by an alligator in 1957, actually, not the early sixties. Part of the crew responsible for mapping and surveying the swamp before the camp had been established in '58. _No longer human_, Dean thought, slapping at his arm absently as another mosquito landed on him. Once he'd known what he was looking for, the information had been there, the old newspaper reports detailing the mining company's business and the search for the man in some detail.

He hadn't been able to figure out the exact transformation process until the librarian had told him a little about the eating habits of alligators. He'd thought that the man must have fought his way free before the reptile had been able to kill him, but he couldn't work out why the guy hadn't just returned to the camp, why he'd stayed in the swamp. As it turned out, gators liked their food mushy, and there were numerous cases of people losing consciousness in the near-drowning experience and waking to find themselves under the banks of a waterway, or under a submerged log, stashed there by the gator to rot some before it would come back to feed.

The thought sent a shiver of distaste through him, and he pushed it away. It didn't matter how so much. Or why. The only thing he had to concentrate on was where. He looked up the twisting stream and slapped at another bite.

* * *

He killed the engine as night fell, picking up the long oar and sculling the boat silently through the water. Even in the darkness, there was some light, phosphorescent plants and fungi provided an eldritch glow that, once his eyes had adjusted, gave him the faint outlines of the banks, the vines and cobwebby moss and weeping branches hanging out over the water. And he could see a light, up ahead, flickering between the vegetation as he moved the boat slowly closer.

The blunt prow pushed silently through the trailing willow leaves, the stream he was on narrowing ahead, the water stagnant here, no longer flowing. With the soft, flickering light spilling out from the building near the bank, he could see the stream open out into a still pond, a drunkenly leaning landing to one side, splintery grey wood outlined and shadowed by the gleam of gold through the glass-less window of the cabin on shore. No boat was tied there, and Dean looked around carefully, wondering if the monster had gone out for another victim.

A few yards before the landing, the bank dipped down near the water, mostly hidden by the overhanging and trailing fronds of thick mosses that reached down to the water. Dean moved the long oar, digging into the mud to push the boat through to the bank. He felt the soft scrape as the bow ran up a little onto the bank and slid the oar back inside, crouching as he walked up to the front of the boat and grabbed the line that was tied to it.

The bank gave a little under his weight as he stepped onto it, his boots making soft sucking noises as he pulled them out of the leaf-covered mud. He tied the line to the trunk of a sapling that was right on the edge, and walked higher.

In front of him, the dilapidated remains of the original mining camp leaned on their stilt foundations. He counted four more-or-less intact cabins and perhaps another dozen in varying states of decomposition. The one closest to the water seemed the most upright. Candle, he thought, or maybe a kerosene or oil lamp, watching the light flicker with each small movement of air. The ground was still soft, but firm enough to walk on further from the pond, and his footfalls were muffled by the thick layer of rapidly rotting vegetation that covered it.

His hand slipped under the back of his jacket, fingers closing around the machete that hung in a sheath there, looped to his belt. The faint rasp of the blade drawing free was hardly audible over the noise of the frogs calling in the night, the whine of the insects that homed in on him. He slipped like a shadow around the cabin and found the steps, looking at them distrustfully for a moment and moving to the side, climbing them as close to the supports as he could. A shallow porch ran around the outside walls and he eased his way across it, hearing the creak of the timbers, feeling the very slight settling and shifting of the structure. A window beside the door still held a few pieces of glass and he looked through it into a single room.

On one side of the room, a long table stood, its surface dark and lumpy looking. A simple wood-stove, made from a forty-four gallon drum stood behind it, the red-brown and lacy appearance of the metal suggesting that it hadn't been used in many years, a blackened stove pipe rising crookedly from the top and out through the unlined roof.

On the other side of the room, a roughly made cot, trimmed but undressed boughs that had been lashed together took up the wall below the window. Dean could see a lump lying on it, covered by a greyish piece of fabric. He stared at the shape for a long moment, and almost jumped when it moved. _Fuck. Kid was still alive_.

He tried the brass latch on the door, a little surprised when it lifted easily and the door swung open. On a smaller table to his right, two guttering candles and a simple oil lamp provided a warm, murky light to the room. He crossed the distance to the cot in three long strides, throwing back the filthy grey blanket and looking down at Aaron Lightner, eight years old. The boy was covered in dirt, but seemed unharmed, Dean thought, his gaze moving over him.

"Come on, I'm going to get you home," he said softly, his hand closing around the boy's arm and pulling him to his feet. Aaron looked up at him, wide-eyed, then his gaze shifted abruptly to the door and he pulled back.

Dean spun around, releasing his grip on the child, knowing already what he'd see behind him. His machete lifted with a low hiss through the thick air. He almost couldn't make out Hennessy at first, the grey skin and clothing, ropey muscle and stringy hair blending into the splintered and weathered grey timber of the door behind him. Then he saw the glitter of the creature's eyes, reddish, and the cheeks lifted as it smiled at him.

He was moving fast, hand catching the edge of the long table and lifting it as he ran, the table cartwheeling into the ghoul. Dean jumped it and felt his knees hit the creature's chest, bones flexing sickeningly under him as he landed on top of it. Bony fingers grabbed his right wrist, clenching tightly and holding the machete back from its throat, and he turned his head aside as it spewed a stream of dark grey bile from its stomach at him, gagging at the smell that hit his clothes and the side of his neck, feeling the sharp, long nails digging into his arm and hand. He wrenched his arm free, shifting backwards onto his heels and swung the machete as the ghoul snaked out from under him and the table. The swing was weak, and he glanced at his fingers, realising belatedly that the fucking thing had managed to stun or damage the nerves in his hand. He shifted the blade to his left, and jumped straight from the crouch, the ghoul throwing itself backwards into the small table, the candles and lamp flying off it and onto the floor. The oil spread viscously over the dry, bare boards, the flames tentatively burning along its trail at first, then getting stronger as they began to eat at the floorboards.

Hennessy charged at him, head lowered, hitting him in the chest and sending them both sprawling backwards across the upturned table. Dean thrust the tip of the machete into the ghoul's chest, rewarded with another gout of foul liquid spraying over his face and continuing to spill out over him. The ghoul's cry bubbled through the hole in its chest and it rolled to one side, over and behind the table, pulling away from his grip as the rotten material tore and fell apart in his hand.

Aaron screamed and Dean rolled onto his feet, launching himself at the ghoul's back as it went for the boy, and knocking it to the floor again. He wrapped both hands around the sharkskin hilt of the long blade and swung across his body, and the sharp edge sliced through the tendons and flesh and bone, the rust-coloured blood gouting over his hands as the head rolled across the floor and into the fire. The hiss and crackle of the dry timbers being consumed jerked his attention back to the cabin and the crying child behind him.

He got up, turning and wiping the blade on the ghoul's clothes and slipping it back into the sheath behind his hip. Holding out his empty hands, he walked to the child and wrapped the blanket around him, picking him up and hurrying across the room to the door. He stepped out and felt the boards of the porch give under him, twisting frantically and getting in an extra long stride to make it to the edge and the steps as the wood splintered and cracked and fell to the ground below. _Goddamned rotten wood_, he thought furiously, jumping down from the top step rather than risk crashing through with the kid. The back of the cabin was well alight, blocking the way he'd come and he turned away, going around another half-standing building instead.

In the jumping light and shadows as the fire spread, he saw the pile just as he reached it. Bones. A lot of bones. A midden spreading out behind the building and reaching to four or five feet in the centre. For a moment he stood there, staring at the small skulls, small leg and arm bones, small skeletons. Then he turned away, skirting the pile widely and going back to the river and the boat, his heart sledging against his ribs.

"Stay with me, Aaron," he muttered, feeling the boy starting to shake against him. "Gonna get you home, stay with me."

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana 2010**_

Dean leaned back against the back of the chair, fingers tight around the glass he held, the memory close around him. He'd gotten the boy back to his family, and had let the cops know about the location, leaving the bundled files for them so that they could notify all the families. And he'd left.

The bones had haunted him, for a while. Still did, from time to time. He'd woken, here, one night. Lisa's face had been drawn when he'd stumbled through a short and not very coherent explanation.

"_Why?" she'd asked. "Why do you put yourself through that?"_

"_It's my job," he'd answered her._

"_It doesn't have to be," she'd pressed him. "Why does it have to be you?"_

"_Because I can do it," he'd said slowly. And because it's what I do. It's who I am, he'd thought, but hadn't said aloud. _Not then.

_Who I am_, he thought now, looking around the quiet living room, pictures on the walls, clean and calm and peaceful. _Who am I, really … now?_

* * *

_**Greeley, Pennsylvania 2009**_

Dean glanced at the newspaper folded beside him as he turned off the engine. The headline above the fold was lurid. He leaned over and popped the glove box, pulling out a handful of identification badges and sorting through them until he found what he wanted, shoving the rest back in and closing the lid.

He'd changed into the suit at a reststop a half-hour earlier, and he got out and walked into the hospital, following the signs to the morgue with an automatic ease. After years of having seen none, having thought that they were nothing more than a myth, vampires had been on the rise in the last few years. Maybe because a lot of the older hunters, the ones who'd specialised in hunting the fangs, had died, he thought vaguely as he rode down to the lower levels in the elevator. Maybe some other reason.

He showed his ID to the orderly at the office. "Looking for the medical examiner."

"She's doing an autopsy right now," the orderly said, pointing down the hall. "Second door."

He nodded and walked down the hall. Behind the second door, the distinctive, high-pitched whine of a Stryker saw came through clearly and he pushed the door open. The room was long, painted a pale green and held four stainless steel tables, the walls lined with cupboards and shelving, countertops also stainless. The far end of the room had a number of stainless doors, one open, a sliding metal tray half pulled out.

The saw stopped and the woman holding it looked up at him. "Gloves and mask if you want to come any closer," she said indistinctly through her mask.

He nodded, looking around. On the table near the door, a box of surgical gloves was opened, and another held masks. He pulled on both, ignoring the mental flash of his brother's grin and walked to the table.

"Detective Bill Buckner," he said, holding up his badge. The woman looked at it carefully through the Perspex goggles she wore. Five-seven, dark red hair drawn back from her face, smooth pale skin and blue-grey eyes, she was remarkably attractive for an ME, he thought irrelevantly.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" she set the saw down on the metal cart beside her and looked down at the brain she'd just exposed. Dean looked at the name tag pinned to her coat. Dr C Stanton.

"Uh, I'm here to look at the exsanguinated victims," he said. She glanced back at him and gestured to the bank of doors at the other end of the room.

"Drawers five and nine," she said, lifting out the brain and setting it onto a scale beside her. "Knock yourself out."

He turned away from the table and walked down to the chilled drawers. Five held a young woman. He looked at the toe tag. Donna Chang. Cause of death was immediately apparently. The area around the carotid artery on the left side of her neck had been torn away. The chart sat on her legs and he picked it up, looking at the personal details, reading through the preliminary findings. She was scheduled for autopsy but that wouldn't help him.

Drawer nine held another young woman. Francine Connor. Also in her early twenties. And … he looked carefully down at the address … from the same apartment block as Donna Chang. He looked over his shoulder at the medical examiner, who was cutting the Y incision in the body on her table now, and pulled out his notebook and a pen, writing down the addresses and details from the chart. Ms Connor had an identical torn hole in the left side of her neck, the carotid torn apart. Both victims had been drained of blood. Completely.

He pushed the drawer back in and walked back to the autopsy table. "How much blood was found at the scene?"

Dr Stanton looked at him. "I didn't do the scenes. I'm only assisting ME here, you need to talk to Dr Conroy."

He nodded. "And he would be …?"

"Call came in this morning, he's out," she frowned at him. "It was another attack on a young woman, same MO as those two – aren't you working this case?"

"Uh, my partner went to the scene, I'm doing follow up on those two," he gestured at the drawers. "Looking for connections."

"Oh," she said, looking down as she lifted the heart out and noted the weight on the scale. "Well, we'll get the body in a couple of hours, I guess, if you want to wait for him."

"I'll come back," he said, mentally kicking himself for not listening to the scanner earlier. "Thanks for your time."

"No problem."

He turned back to the door, stripping off the gloves and mask and dumping in the trash can beside the door.

_Another one. Three in three weeks. Vamp was hungry. Or out of control._

* * *

Apartment block B was one of three large buildings surrounding a pleasantly landscaped garden at the end of the street. Underground parking for the tenants left plenty of visitor spaces on the street, and the black car rumbled softly to a halt in front of the building. Dean looked slowly around the square as he got out of the car.

Donna Chang had lived in apartment 209, he thought, crossing the sidewalk and walking up the steps to the front doors. Francine Connor in 413. Had they known each other? Was the connection between them this place, or something personal? He pushed through the thick glass doors, and climbed the stairs to the second floor, turning down the hall and counting off the door numbers.

No one answered at apartment 209 and he checked the hall both ways before pulling out his set of picks and selecting a pair to tackle the simple lock. He was inside and pulling the door closed behind him in less than a minute.

The apartment was spacious and tidy, large living area with a compact kitchen to one side, two doors leading off a short hall on the other. Bookshelves and a desk with a laptop took up one corner of the living room, comfortable seating, an entertainment system and a small dining table with four chairs filled the rest. A couple of dishes had been left in the drainer on the otherwise spotless sink. He looked over the room thoroughly, and left the laptop loading, turning to check the bathroom and bedroom.

Both bodies had been found on the street outside. One in the landscaped garden that sat between the three blocks, the other beside block B, on the sidewalk. No one had heard anything, no screams, nothing to suggest they were being attacked. He sat down at the desk and frowned slightly as he brought up the woman's email, scanning through the correspondence quickly. Aside from the fact that Donna Chang had been living an utterly ordinary life, he couldn't find anything else of interest. Looking through the address book, he couldn't see any connection between the two women. Other than the fact that they lived in the same building. He opened the appointment book and scanned through the pages for the last four weeks. Donna had had an active and varied social life, he thought, skimming over notations of dates, meetings and events. Nothing more than that. He shut down the laptop and looked around the apartment again. Dead end.

Two floors up, Francine Connor's apartment was smaller, a little more disorganised but not much different in the lead department. He sighed as he closed the door behind him and started down the stairs. Both had gone to the same bar from time to time, he'd found a reference to it in Donna's computer, a printed matchbook from it in Francine's, but it was their neighbourhood bar so it wasn't much of a coincidence.

"S'cuse me."

Dean looked up as the rough, gravelly voice intruded on his thoughts and moved aside for the janitor, who was lugging an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner up the stairs behind him. The smell of lemon-scented detergent floated around the man as he nodded and climbed past.

He'd check the bar this evening, he thought. It might be a local predator, someone living in one of the three blocks of apartments, or in any of the older houses that still remained, sprinkled through the new developments in the neighbourhood.

* * *

The motel was clean, had cable TV and was probably a little out of his price range, but he figured he deserved a break. He rid himself of the suit as soon as he walked inside, then pulled a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table with his notes, flicking the police scanner on as he walked past it.

He had a hunting ground, sort of, he thought, reading through the clippings and notes. The third victim that the cops had found had been a resident of Block A. Apartment 313. Young. Attractive. Dead with a hole in her neck and not more than a couple of cups of blood left in her. That made two in the one week.

Why hadn't the girls made a sound? One good, loud scream might've alerted the neighbours who'd been all around. Taken by surprise or knocked out before they realised they'd been targeted? Or had they recognised the vamp? He frowned.

For all the romantic literature on vampires, the reality wasn't that a vamp could sweep a woman off her feet – or a man for that matter. They reeked of the perfume of the undead, a combination of rotting flowers and rotting flesh, that nothing but a truly powerful scent could hide. Their skin was dead white, often underlaid by mottled shadows, depending on how often they fed, and hard-looking. Their eyes were too vivid, too bright, too filled with the cold consideration of a predator staring at its prey. Chick'd have to be wasted to consider one as a suitable guy to go home with.

He glanced at his watch. Barely four in the afternoon. He'd go out tonight, check out the bar and the neighbourhood, do a little scoping. He had no doubt that this area was where the vampire was living – or existing – or whatever you called it. The police had doubled their patrols in the neighbourhood.

He finished his beer and yawned, leaning over to pull off his boots, then walking over to the bed and stretching out on it.

* * *

"_Sam, you're lying to yourself. I just want you to be okay. You would do the same for me. You know you would," he said, watching his brother._

_"Just listen," Sam said, glancing at the knife in his hand and tossing it onto the bed. "Just listen for a second. We got a lead on a demon close to Lilith. Come with us, Dean. We'll do this together."_

_"That sounds great. As long as it's you and me. Demon bitch is a dealbreaker. You kiss her goodbye, we can go right now," he said._

_"I can't."_

_Dean turned away, nodding. It was the same, always the same with his little brother. Not seeing the reality. Overlaying it with some intellectualised crap that made sense when you heard but felt wrong right down through your bones._

_"Dean, I need her to help me kill Lilith. I know you can't wrap your head around it, but maybe one day you'll understand. I'm the only one who can do this, Dean." Sam had said earnestly, believing it._

_Dean turned back to him. "No, you're not the one who's gonna do this."_

_"Right, that's right, I forgot. The angels think it's you."_

_He heard the mocking doubt in his brother's voice. "You don't think I can?"_

_"No," Sam said, his gaze cool. "You can't. You're not strong enough."_

_"And who the hell are you?"_

_"I'm being practical here. I'm doing what needs to be done," Sam said, his voice chilly._

_"Yeah? You're not gonna do a single damn thing."_

_"Stop bossing me around, Dean," Sam said irritably. "Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you are my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me."_

_The plea was there, the coldness gone. But it was still wrong. Still screamed at him inside that it was wrong. "No. You don't know what you're doing, Sam."_

_"Yes, I do."_

_He closed his eyes. "Then that's worse."_

_"Why? Look, I'm telling you—"_

_He cut him off angrily. "Because it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are! It means—"_

_He couldn't say it. Not to the man in front of him, who he still saw at four, and nine and fourteen. Younger. Smaller. His little brother who he'd sworn to protect. Sworn to save._

_"What?" Sam looked at him, his voice shaking. "No. Say it."_

_Dean looked at him, feeling his heart breaking inside as he forced the words out. "It means you're a monster."_

_His head was ringing, his brother's strength enormous, the hits hard and unforgiving and he deserved them, he felt that he deserved it for saying it, for admitting it finally to himself, to Sam. He blocked and hit back, but Sam threw it off. He went down, looking at the carpet next to his face and tried to get back up, but there was pain everywhere and nothing wanted to respond._

_He heard Sam panting, somewhere above him. "You don't know me. You never did. And you never will."_

_Footfalls across the carpet. The sound of the doorknob being turned. He lifted his head, got his eyes open a little._

"_You walk out that door, don't you ever come back," his voice broke._

_Sam stopped for a moment and turned to look at him. For a moment, he felt hope, hope that his brother wouldn't go through with it, that he'd turn right around and come back and they can be family again. But Sam leaves._

He woke abruptly, sitting up, feeling the cooling sweat on his face and neck and back, the jackhammer beat of his heart at the base of his throat, heard the jagged edge of the breaths he pulled into his lungs.

It wasn't leaving him alone, that dream, that nightmare. He didn't have to look at Sam every day now, and that was good, that had made it easier. But the nightmare wouldn't leave, would rise and he'd feel his trust, his love, shattered again. He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering how long it would take before he could let it go. The room was dim, the only light coming from the bright neon sign outside, filtering through the thin curtains. In the near-darkness, his watch showed that it was almost six.

He got up, stripping off and turning on the shower, standing under the spray of water and trying to let the memories go. Should he have told Ellie, he wondered? Talked it out? Gotten it out? He might've been able to, if she'd stayed a bit longer, hadn't taken off as soon as the job was over.

He tipped his head back, the water sluicing through his hair and down his face. He'd told her he was good, was happy, and the hardest part about it was that it was true. He hadn't felt this … easy … with himself for years. Hadn't been able to just get on with his life, with the job, with … everything, for years.

_Stop bossing me around_, Sam'd said. Had he? Probably, he thought. But it went both ways. For everything he'd tried to do to keep his brother safe, Sam had countered with questions and lies and secrets, until even hunting monsters had turned from a simple job, a black and white job, into a world of shadows, where he was questioning his own decisions, unable to see the right course, the right thing to do. He'd still felt it, deep in his gut, but he hadn't been able to express those feelings, not even to himself.

Turning off the water, he stepped onto the mat and grabbed a towel, drying himself impatiently. Well, that was over now, he thought. He had a vampire to kill and that was straightforward and simple. If he could find it, he amended dryly.

* * *

The bar wasn't large, taking up the corner of the block. Inside, the warm timber furniture glowed in the gentle overhead lights, an L-shaped bar took up the centre of the room, booths along the walls and tables scattered with plenty of space between them to either side. The felt of the pool table glowed a deep green under the lights above it, and a couple of people were playing a game, the soft click of the balls counterpoint to the quiet ballad that played in the background. On the wall in the corner, a big television set sat silent and dark.

Dean walked to the bar and took a seat, looking around casually. It was still early, and the place only held a dozen customers, sitting in the booths or at the tables, a couple talking quietly at the other end of the bar. He had no idea what he was looking for, really, although he thought he'd recognise it if it appeared.

The bartender came over and he ordered a beer, pulling a bowl of pretzels closer. At the back of the bar, behind the shelving holding bottles of liquor, a mirror gave him a good view around the room, and particularly of the front door.

He was on his second beer and starting to think it might be a good idea to get something to eat when the door opened and a woman walked in, hair blazing under the golden lights. His heart gave a double beat, settling at once as he realised that the shade of red was too dark, and he recognised Dr Stanton, hair down and loose now, dressed in a black suit, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a soft line of shadow, bisecting her chest.

_Another local?_ He watched her look around the room and head for the bar.

"Detective … Buckner, wasn't it?" She sat down next to him, putting her purse on the bar beside her. "I take it you're off-duty?"

"That's right," Dean said, looking at her. "You live around here?"

"Down the street," she said, turning her attention to the bartender as he walked up. "Hey Jerry, just the usual, thanks."

Jerry nodded and took down a wine glass, half filling it with white wine and topping it up with soda water. He put the sparkling drink on the bar in front of her and she lifted it at once.

"Bad day at the office?" Dean asked, smiling slightly.

"Not awful, but I've had better," she said, setting the glass down and turning to him. "How are you progressing with the case?"

He glanced away, wondering how to field that. "Slow going."

She nodded, closing her eyes. "I knew Marianna – the last girl – a little. We both moved into the apartment block at the same time."

"Which block do you live in?"

"A," she said, opening her eyes and looking at him. "But I think … I'm looking around for someplace else. It's too creepy."

"Good idea," he said readily, finishing his beer. "You didn't see anything, or hear anything last night?"

"No," she said, shaking her head and finishing her spritzer. "That's what's so creepy. There's a family in the B block and you can hear every time the baby cries – honestly, the sound just echoes around those buildings, but I didn't hear anything at all on any of the nights that those girls were … you know, and I was home, all those evenings."

He saw the flutter of fear in her face, and nodded sympathetically. "The, uh, patrols have been doubled."

"Yeah, but I mean what can you guys do? Enforce a curfew? Make everyone travel in groups?" She shook her head and lifted a finger to Jerry. "Living like that just makes everyone more afraid."

Dean looked at her, acknowledging that. _Better to be afraid than dead_, he thought privately, but no one could live like that indefinitely. He wondered if he should keep her company tonight, at least walk her home, just to make sure she got there safely. Had nothing to do with the wide, blue-grey eyes looking at him with a certain level of interest, he told himself, nothing to do with the curves he could see under the suit. Just a precaution.

She held out her hand to him. "Carly."

He smiled and took it. "Bill."

* * *

The sheets and covers were tangled in a mess at the foot of the bed, catching his feet as he drove deep. He felt her nails, digging into his shoulders and he arched back, the fast tattoo around him pushing him over at the same time as she cried out.

Rolling onto his side, he looked down at her, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, eyes closed as she caught her breath. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, running a hand lightly over his chest.

"Is this what you call serving the community, Detective?" she asked on a hiccup of laughter.

He smiled a little, and rolled onto his back. "If that's the way you want to look at it."

They lay, side by side, for a while, not speaking, but skin to skin along arms and legs. He felt spent, and tired, the interlude leaving something out, he thought, some part of him unsatisfied, unsatiated.

Beside him, she stretched out and rolled onto her stomach, glancing sideways at him.

"I have to get going," she said quietly. He looked over at her and sat up, nodding.

"I'll walk you."

He saw the relief in her eyes and smiled inwardly. It was only a couple of blocks to her apartment, he wasn't sure how she'd figured he might let her walk home alone, since he was supposed to be working on the case.

Reaching down for his clothes, he pulled them on quickly, glancing over his shoulder as he buckled the belt and felt the long sheath against the side of his leg. The jacket covered it, and he turned around to see her dressed and running her fingers through her hair.

"I've got an early start tomorrow," she said, by way of explanation. He shrugged.

"So do I."

He opened the door for her and the cool night air hit them, making her shiver in her lightweight jacket. He noticed that she'd buttoned it right up this time.

They turned into the path to building A together, and he waited while she unlocked the front doors, following her in and up the stairs to her apartment. She glanced back, smiling a little.

"I'm probably safe enough now, Detective."

"No point in not going all the way now," he said, his senses reaching out through the building. It was quiet, and the hall lights were dim. She kept walking and he looked around, focussing on the shadows, on the darkened doorways.

Carly reached the second floor landing and turned the corner, and the smell hit him strongly, lemons with a sharp chemical undertaste. He shot around the corner and saw the vampire holding her, one arm locked around her mouth, the other around her chest, her head dragged to one side, exposing her neck. The gunshot was very loud in the hallway, the small black hole in the vampire's forehead glinting red as it dropped the woman and staggered back along the hall. Dean jumped over Carly and threw himself at the vampire's back as it turned, hitting it high and knocking it down to the ground, machete blade singing as he swung it through the air, the sound cut off when it hit the neck and bit through, into the carpet below. Blood sprayed over the side of his face and neck, and over his hand.

He watched the head roll away from him, then turned back, see her cowering against the wall, her eyes huge with shock, looking at him, not at the thing that had attacked her. When her eyes met his, she scrambled to her feet, hands shaking as she tried to shove the key into the lock of her apartment door. She finally managed it, twisting the key savagely and opening and closing the door as fast as possible. He heard the sounds of the locks being done up inside and sighed.

Sometimes the damsels didn't think much of the way they were saved. Dean got up and dragged the body to the wall, crouching down and shifting it over his shoulder. He picked up the head and turned around, walking back down the stairs. There was a good chance that the cops were on their way.

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana 2010**_

The vamp hunt had been his last hunt on his own, he thought, looking down into the inch of amber liquid left at the bottom of his glass. The last time he'd felt the weight of responsibility slide free and he'd been … just himself, just Dean, not son or brother, protector or guardian. He'd been disappointed but not really surprised by Carly's reaction. It hadn't mattered that much. The job was done and he was moving on anyway. He'd burned the body and driven out of town and the nightmares had kept coming and he'd been looking for the next thing when Cas had turned up.

"_Why do you do something that you hate, that you don't get paid for? Don't even get thanks for?"_

Lisa's bewildered comment came back to him. He'd told her a little, of the life, of his past. Just enough so that she would understand why he couldn't tell her more. In one way, the comment made sense. At least, it made sense in a normal life, although he guessed, if he'd thought about the things people did, even in normal life, he could come up with a lot of stuff that people did just because they could do it, just because it needed to be done by someone.

He didn't know how to explain it to her. Didn't know how to explain that even though Aaron's parents hadn't known who'd saved their son, and Carly had been more afraid of him than of the vampire that'd attacked her, he'd still left both jobs feeling like he'd made a difference. That other people could go about their lives without fear, without watching the darkness. And that feeling, that was what mattered. Doing his job. Being good at it. He did it because he could. He did it because it was who he was, down where he lived and breathed. He hated that he'd lost almost everyone he'd cared about, in that life. But the life? No, he didn't hate it. Not at all.

He knew that she couldn't understand it, even when she said she did. He couldn't explain why he felt alive in that life, even with its pain, even with its suffering, or why he felt as if he was dying slowly in this one. Dying without dying, lingering on and on in the loud silence of his mind when he couldn't sleep and he couldn't find what made him live, couldn't fill the deep hole that existed when he pretended to be something he wasn't. When he pretended to be normal.

He looked up at the patter of rain on the glass of the windows, exhaling deeply as it got stronger. He didn't think all this introspection was doing him much good.

_I'm not gonna lie to you, though. It goes against every fibre I got. I mean, truth is... You know, watching out for you ... it's kinda been my job, you know? But more than that, it's ... it's kinda who I am. You're not a kid anymore, Sam, and I can't keep treating you like one. Maybe I got to grow up a little, too._

Dean put the glass down on the table and dropped his head into his hands as the memory of that moment surged through him. _That's who I was. When I had a brother. When I had a family. But who am I now?_

That was the question that he couldn't get his head around. Looking after this family, this surrogate family that he'd promised to come to, that wasn't the same thing. He looked at this life, this quiet, peaceful life and he knew that this is what he'd been longing for, but he couldn't work out why. It was good. It was comforting. But he couldn't feel it, couldn't make himself feel it. Couldn't find the place inside where it touched him or connected to him.

Hunting. He'd felt that. He'd been alive then. He'd had what he'd wanted, he realised slowly, but it had all been taken away, piece by piece. There was no way back.

The rain drummed against the windows, he could hear it gurgling along the gutters and down the drains, bouncing off the cars and the hard surface of the driveway and the road. He got up and walked to the window, watching the drops hit and run down, a constant motion that reminded him of something he didn't allow himself to think about. There were a lot of things he wouldn't let himself remember or revisit, the pain of them too likely to bring down the walls he was holding together by sheer will. He turned away, letting the curtain fall, and walked back to the …


	9. Chapter 9 Nothing Else Matters

**Chapter 9 Nothing Else Matters**

* * *

_**Blue Earth, Minnesota, March 2010**_

… couch. He kept tripping over the memory. Sam was too, he thought, seeing his brother's sideways glances at him from the corner of his eye. _Only a true servant of Heaven_. What'd it mean? He looked at Sam, watching him as he wrapped the pastor's arm, blood already seeping through the bandage.

It meant, he thought uneasily, that he had a job to do.

And there was no way around it, not under or over, no way but doing it. Was it giving up? Or was it doing what he was born to do, what he was supposed to do? He didn't know. Not for sure. He knew that someone had to be there. Someone had to be there when the devil found his brother's weakness and rode into him and brought on the end of the world.

* * *

_**I-90 E, Illinois, March 2010**_

Dean flicked the wipers to the higher setting as the rain sheeted across the glass, hiding the road from view in between swipes with the reflections and refractions of the tail-lights ahead of him.

He'd killed her. He'd felt the flush of power pass from the branch to his fingers and through his body when he'd driven it deep, felt that power flux back from him and into the branch.

_The whore can only be killed by a true Servant of Heaven. _Cas' voice intoned in his memory.

So.

What did that mean? _Not you. Or me_, Cas had said. Wouldn't an angel know a fucking true servant of Heaven when he saw one? Or was the lore screwed up there as well as down here. The Bible hadn't been written by angels, after all. Just men.

This whole time, since he'd found himself buried in a hole in a field in Illinois, he'd been thinking that someone up there had made a helluva mistake. He might be the one who had to finish it, when all was said and done, but it didn't make sense to him. He wasn't righteous. He wasn't strong. Not strong enough to let his brother die. Not strong enough to keep his father safe. Not even strong enough to be able to deal with the shit that had been pouring into and over and through his life for the last two years without the aid of a fifth a day. He was going to fucking well die of liver disease before the devil even made his next fucking move.

His fingers were clenched around the wheel and he loosened them, pushing back at his doubts. Look at the facts. He'd been raised from Hell. By God. It was a spotlight he didn't think he could get out of. He'd killed her. With the sacred olive branch or whatever that hunk of wood had been. It'd worked.

And Lucifer had been certain, he thought, his chest constricting and his fingers tightening around the leather grip on the wheel again. Certain he would get Sam. The problem was, he was getting kind of certain of that as well.

He'd watched helplessly as Sam had run from the things he'd done, the choices he'd made. Unwilling to rebuke his brother for those choices, believing that it wouldn't happen again – until it did. Every act of forgiveness had been a mistake; he knew that, a way for Sam to run from another bad call without dealing with it. His father had never made that mistake with him.

He'd watched the anger that lived inside his brother come out in a hundred different ways over the past five years. Anger at his past, at Dad, at him. Anger that burst free whenever Sam was not in control. Emptying the clip into that kid. Tearing apart demons with the power of the blood. He couldn't pretend to himself that it was all the demon blood. It wasn't. It was his little brother driving the bus. And that anger.

Would that have built up if they'd lived more normally? If Sam had been able to stay in one place, have friends, not live in the pressure cooker of their life, caught in the secrecy and the danger and the loneliness of it? He'd never know. Perhaps that didn't matter so much. He didn't even know how much of what surged and raged through his brother was the result of the yellow-eyed demon's contribution and how much was just Sam's nature. He'd been a quiet kid, quietly determined, quietly intelligent, quietly working out how to get free of the family he loved but couldn't be with.

And that anger, that was a weakness, Dean knew. A hole in Sam's defences that Lucifer could exploit all too easily. A way in. It wouldn't take much to appeal to his brother's self-righteousness, to convince him that he'd been unhappy in his life because he'd lacked the power to change things. It wouldn't take much at all, he thought bleakly.

Had he made it all worse, with the deal? Had he broken something inside of Sam when he'd gone down there? He'd left his brother alone. He'd promised their father he'd never do that, but he had anyway. And while Sam had been alone, he'd found another ally, another way. The wrong way.

He rubbed a hand tiredly over his jaw. There hadn't been a choice and it was no good going over and over it. He'd done the only thing he could do at the time. He couldn't let Sam die. Couldn't live, knowing that he'd failed to protect him. Couldn't live on his own, no family left at all, and all of it sitting squarely on him. Perhaps he'd been selfish, perhaps he'd taken the easy way out. It hadn't felt easy. It had left … stains inside of him that were never going away.

He didn't understand why he'd been chosen. Cas had said that destiny had laid its mark on him, but what the hell did that mean, really? That his family was cursed? Or that Heaven had looked down and seen a family that could be manipulated, that came from the bloodlines required and had just decided to fuck them over?

If they'd never had a choice in the matter, if there'd never been a way out, what was the point of struggling against it? Any of it?

He tried to look back, to see any point where he could've done something different, changed the path they were on. He was bone-weary from fighting and he'd been fighting everyone, everything, it felt like since Dad had disappeared and he'd gone to see his brother in California. His father's sacrifice. His brother's rage. Angels and demons and his own fear that he couldn't do it, couldn't carry the load that had been put onto him, couldn't bear the agonies that kept piling up around him, couldn't be the man his father had been, that he'd wanted to be, that was needed.

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana, March 2010**_

Dean pulled the key from the door and closed it behind him, dropping his bag on the floor and putting the empty cardboard box down on the table. The room was dark, and he flipped on the lights, looking around disinterestedly. A double bed took up one wall, with a nightstand. A shallow chest of drawers and a small desk took up most of another wall. The woodwork was darkly stained and the overall impression was old-fashioned, like a room in an old film noir movie. That probably suited, he thought.

He'd driven for ten hours straight to get to Lisa's place. The motel had been at the other end of town. His schedule had only one more thing to do on it, and he thought that that could wait for another few hours. He needed to sleep.

* * *

The room was cool but the covers lay in a bunched pile around his feet as he rolled over again, his breathing echoing harshly from the bare walls of the room.

"_I don't see much hope for us, Dean," Ellie said, turning away from him, walking away._

_No. That wasn't right, that wasn't Ellie, that'd been Cassie, down in Missouri._

"_Wait … stop," he said, trying to follow her, but his feet wouldn't move. She turned back to him, her eyes cool and distant._

"_You're broken, Dean. Broken inside. You don't deserve to be happy. You never have," she said and the words sliced into him like knives. "What you brought back with you, what lives inside of you – you'll never be clean again. There's a part of you that's demon, Dean. Black and filthy and ugly and evil. You can't get rid of it, can't make it better, make it go away."_

_No. She'd told him … she hadn't said that. He looked down and saw that was holding him in place was a black liquid, as thick and viscous as grease, rising up, covering his feet, then his knees. He looked at her, the copper-bright hair loose down her back, her eyes cold and hard and contemptuous. She'd never looked at him like that, not once since he'd known her._

"_You said …"_

"_I know. I was wrong," she replied, shaking her head. "You weren't strong enough, Dean. You gave up. You broke the seal and the only way you're going to redeem yourself is to follow your destiny."_

"_No!" He fought one foot free of the clinging black goo, stepping toward her. "That's not true."_

"_I thought I loved you, I really did." She looked down at the thick liquid that was rising around him. "But I was wrong. I can't come back. Can't face what you are. I'm never coming back, Dean. You're on your own."_

He jerked upright in the bed, wiping a hand over his face, feeling his sweat coating the palm. Just a dream, he told himself, for the hundredth time. Just another screwed-up fucking dream.

He didn't know what to think about the dreams he had now. They hurt because there were grains of truth in them, things he thought of himself. He didn't know if others thought the same things. She'd told him that it wasn't true, that he wasn't damned, but how real was that? She'd left and she hadn't come back.

He swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow his pulse, trying to slow the gasping breaths that were still tearing out of him. A glance at his watch told him he'd slept for about two hours. Not enough. Not nearly enough. The thought of closing his eyes again brought another kick of adrenalin.

She had his number. She could've gotten in touch. If she'd wanted to. Despair, miring and thick and over his head, drowned him. He thought … he'd thought he'd found what he wanted, when she'd held him and told him. He was afraid he might have been lying to himself.

He didn't know why he'd gone to see Lisa, tracking her down and finding her new house, turning up and telling her that he'd thought of her when he thought of happiness. It'd been over two years since he'd seen her, more than a year since he'd even thought of her and Ben, and it wasn't the truth, not really. She was the next best thing, he knew. The consolation prize because what he wanted, what he needed, was gone and would never come back. One night. One person who knew him so well, who was safe to be with, safe to talk to, safe to share the worst things inside himself with …

Except … maybe she wasn't. Too broken. Too broken to be with. Too broken to love. He'd told her everything. And then she'd gone. To protect him, Cas said. To protect him and Sam from the angels, from Michael.

He closed his eyes, resting his head in his hands. _Except you can't, Ellie_, he thought miserably. _Because I won't let the devil take my brother and destroy the world_. Michael would have his vessel and her staying away would have been for nothing. But that wasn't really the issue, was it?

The issue was that now he didn't know what was real, what was true and what wasn't.

* * *

The hot water was cooling. Standing under the spray, he felt isolated from the world, if not from his own mind.

_It'll happen in Detroit._

That certainty. He felt it too. Sam was running scared, turning over rocks, desperate to find an answer, a solution, a way to kill the devil because he wasn't certain in himself that he would be able to resist.

Bobby wasn't saying it out loud, not yet. But he could see the knowledge in the old man's eyes. There was no way out. There was only one end point. And they were too far along the path to be able to turn back, to be able to change the direction now.

He wondered vaguely when they'd passed that point of no return. Had the step that had marked it even been visible? Had they been going too fast, trying to get past what was after them, crossing the line without even seeing it?

He thought it might have been in Cold Spring. That turning point. When Sam had chosen Ruby. At least for him. For Sam … he wasn't sure, but he thought it'd been when the hellhounds had come for him and his brother had been left alone. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they'd passed the point in Lawrence when he'd run from a burning house with his baby brother in his arms and his father still up there, trying to save his wife. Or years before that, when Mary had said yes to a demon to save the life of the man she'd loved, the man she'd wanted to marry.

There were no answers. Only questions and the questions were all the same.

* * *

He looked at the box and shook his head. One box, holding a few things, the sum of his years on the planet. A leather jacket, cracked and worn and not even his, not really. A Colt M1911 .45 calibre automatic, engraved barrel and ivory grips. His mother's wedding ring. The keys to his car. Not much to show for a lifetime, he thought sourly. All of his … mementos … if you could call them that, were inside and maybe that was best. He hadn't let much out. He'd be glad to die knowing that only two knew the truth, knew what he'd really done and felt. And neither would ever tell anyone else.

He owed Bobby an explanation, he thought tiredly. A reason. Something to make sense to the old man of what he was doing, what he felt. On the desk there was a small heap of hotel stationery, notepaper and envelopes.

Pulling the bottle from the paper bag, he walked to the small kitchen counter and took a glass from the tray. He set the bottle and glass down on the desk and took a sheet of paper.

The paper remained obstinately blank in front of him. What was there to say? What could he say that would explain what he was doing? What could he say that would make Bobby understand?

The crack of the bottle's lid being broken was loud in the silent room. He poured out a double and drank a mouthful, looking at that clean, white sheet in front of him.

"_What happened to the car?" Bobby asked, sitting silently in the dim living room, as he'd come into the house. Dean hadn't seen him there and he started, then shrugged._

"_Sledge slipped," he muttered, turning away and going to the fridge for a beer._

"_So … instead of tapping out the dent, you decided that the whole trunk lid was a useful target?"_

_He closed the fridge and leaned up against it, forehead resting against the cool metal._

"_What's going on, Dean?"_

"_Nothing," he said, straightening up and turning around and looking the old man in the eye. "It's all good."_

_Bobby snorted. "I thought you fixed things, didn't know you were a wrecker at heart."_

_Dean looked at him stonily, knocking the lid of the bottle off on the edge of the counter and swallowing a mouthful._

_Bobby stood up and walked over to him, the expression on his face cautious, the hazel eyes filled with sympathy._

"_Your Dad –"_

_He turned sharply, walking away. "Nothing to do with Dad, Bobby."_

"_No. 'Course not." Heard the deep exhale behind him. "You gonna run, Dean?"_

_He stopped at the doorway. He didn't run. Or did he? Who the fuck cared what he did. He should've been dead._

"_Your Dad was a good man," Bobby said slowly. "But he made mistakes, like everyone else."_

_He stood there, waiting, his chest getting tighter._

"_He made mistakes with you boys –"_

"_Don't. Please," he said abruptly. He couldn't deal with this. With any of it._

"_He made his own choices, Dean. He didn't have it easy," Bobby continued, determined to get through to the young man standing rigidly in front of him. "He made mistakes with you boys and he hated himself for them, but he always tried to do what was best for you –"_

"_Why are you defending him?" Dean turned and snarled. "I heard what he said to you, the last time we were here!"_

"_Dean, you don't know where that came from, what had happened –"_

"_You telling me that was justified? You're okay with that … now?"_

"_I'm telling you that you can't judge when you don't know the whole story," Bobby said evenly, staring at him._

"_I shouldn't be here. That's the whole story," he snapped, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle in his hand. "I was dead!"_

_He looked at Bobby, his throat so tight he could hardly swallow, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. "And then I wasn't. But he was."_

_Bobby looked away. Neither of them could say it, though it was in both of their minds. What John Winchester had done. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, filled with anger and regret, with anguish and certainty. Filled with memories that wouldn't let go._

"_He did what he could to save you, Dean," Bobby said quietly, looking at the floor._

"_That was his mistake."_

"_No," Bobby looked up at him, face drawn. "No, it wasn't. Don't say that. Don't you ever say that!"_

_Dean stared at Bobby despairingly. "Jesus, Bobby! What do you want from me?"_

"_I want you to stop blaming yourself!" Bobby roared at him, his hands closing into fists to stop them from shaking. "I want you to live and be who you are, instead of trying to be him, instead of telling yourself that you're not worth anything!"_

_He flinched back, knowing that the anger wasn't with him, but unable to believe in the words, in the expression that filled Bobby's face, in what he felt emanating from the old man. It wasn't for him. Couldn't be._

He picked up the pen and started writing, the words flowing smoothly out, easily out, skating over his emotions but leaving the feeling there, on the paper, as much as he could.

_Dear Bobby,_

_By the time you get this, I'll be surrendering to Michael …_

* * *

The whiskey slid down his throat, giving him a warmth that he couldn't find on his own. Faces appeared in his mind's eye and he tried to turn away from them, tried to shut them out but they refused to go, one after another, filling him up and closing around him. His family. And Ellen and Jo. Ash and Pamela. People who had helped them. Tried to help them. Died to help them.

How many more would die if he didn't do it?

Donnie Finneman flashed into his mind and he shoved that image aside. The man had been burned – from the inside out – nothing left of poor Donnie in the limp form that had sat in the hospital. How Raphael had gotten his consent was anyone's guess, but perhaps it was the nature of the archangels to leave their vessels drooling messes.

"_So is this what I'm looking at if Michael jumps in my bones?" he'd asked Cas._

_The angel had looked at the mechanic pityingly. "No, not at all. Michael is much more powerful. It'll be far worse for you."_

He was afraid. He could admit to that. But the cost … the cost of not doing it, that would be worse. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he stepped aside, pretended it didn't have anything to do with him. He looked down at the glass in his hand. Michael could do it. And the archangel needed him.

Leaning back against the wall, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He wondered if Michael would give him a last request before the angel wiped him out.

He wanted to see her, to ask her if she'd meant what she'd said or if she'd lied to him. He couldn't block out those memories, couldn't shut out the ache that they brought, couldn't find a way to pretend that they hadn't happened.

He'd risked everything, pretending to himself that he was doing it because he wanted to know why God had chosen him. It'd been much later that he'd recognised that the reason for telling her had been a lot more personal.

"_And one day, I said yes, and it was all gone. Every wound, every scar, I sat up and there was nothing wrong with me. I got off the table and I turned around and there was a soul on it – she was crying and begging and pleading – and he handed me the razor and I started to cut."_

_The silence had been deafening and he couldn't open his eyes, couldn't look at her face, so fucking scared of what he would see there._

"_The first one, I threw up, afterward," he'd shaken his head slightly. "You can't, in Hell, but I did anyway. But it got easier and easier and then … then I started to like it." He'd dragged in a deep breath, not knowing if he could keep going. "I was forgetting. Forgetting who I was when I sliced through them, forgetting what I was, when I heard their screams." He stopped, disgust filling him, gagging him. _

_Don't tell her, he thought frantically, don't tell her that. But he couldn't stop now because he needed someone to know. Needed her to know, or he'd never believe it was real. "Sometimes … sometimes … it turned me on, that pain, the blood, their expressions, I couldn't stop it and I didn't want to stop it, it felt … it felt … the more pain … the more pain I could create … the better it … felt," he said slowly, the words coming out like drops of poison, his ears straining in the darkness to hear her reaction. "I was getting off on it, and Alastair, he saw it …" He remembered the demon laughing in delight. That had stopped it, for a while. Had checked that dark arousal in him. "He told me I was … I would …"_

_That he couldn't finish. The demon's laugh had filled the vast space and had drilled into his mind and had shown him, in graphic detail, what he would become._

_The humiliations. The degradation. The agony he'd been able to feel because his mind had refused to let go of the memories of his body. None of that had twisted or distorted him as much as the knowledge that he'd wanted to inflict suffering. Wanted it because when he was making them scream, he didn't feel his own. Except, he knew, in some part of himself that he'd kept aside, kept hidden, kept deep, that he still did. Broken apart and remade from the pieces. None of them had quite fit the way they'd used to._

_He'd waited for her to speak. Waited for her to leave. Waited to hear the echo of his disgust in her voice. She'd told him … she'd told him that he was forgiven. That he only needed to forgive himself. She'd told him he was loved, and that he needed to learn to love himself. She told him she loved him and she'd kissed him and held him and he'd fought against it but in the end, she hadn't left and he'd begun to hope._

Dean let out his breath as the memory sat in his mind. He'd told her everything and he knew he would never be able to do that again. He wasn't sure how he'd been able to do it with Ellie. A conjunction of peace and need and … and he didn't know what. Castiel knew. Knew it all. He'd seen that in the angel's face. But he'd never had to tell anyone. Except for her.

He wondered if she'd gone over that slow, painful confession again and had changed her mind. It'd taken him a while, after he'd gotten out, to push those memories down, far enough down that he could touch a woman again. Every time he'd tried, he'd see the razor, see the blood and he'd frozen, unable to move, or breathe or speak.

The memories came out still, in his nightmares. In his reactions. But for one night, they hadn't.

* * *

He turned off the tap and looked at himself in the wide mirror above the sink, water dripping from his lashes and jaw. He saw a man whose face he'd once recognised. There wasn't much in it that was recognisable now. Turning away, he grabbed the towel and dried off, hanging it up and leaving the small bathroom without glancing at the reflection again.

Six billion people, give or take a hundred million, he thought wearily. Cas had said that the battle between Michael and Lucifer would probably result in a blast radius of half the planet. Whatever that meant. He couldn't get a straight answer from the angel about the final showdown and the fallout it would have. He couldn't save them all. Already hundreds of thousands had died in the natural disasters that were rocking the world. Cyclones and blizzards. Volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. Blight and famine and disease, going through the Third World nations one after the other. The First War, when Michael had cast the angel down into the cage, had supposedly resulted in a winter lasting forty years. The population had been reduced to a fraction of its size, despite the fact that the war had occurred when the population had not been large to begin with.

No matter which way he looked at it, Armageddon was going to decimate the planet.

The angel had, finally, admitted that if Lucifer got his brother, and there was no one to stop him, the damage would cataclysmic. There would be no one left after the devil had done his sweeps.

It didn't leave a choice. Not for him, anyway.

* * *

He looked around the room restlessly. _What are you waiting for? You've packed everything up, you've said your goodbyes. Get on with it_.

He'd hardly touched the bottle, still sitting on the desk. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, but he felt that he wasn't quite ready to go out and find the angels. To make the deal. Not yet.

It was giving up. There was no other choice, but it was still giving up. And … specifically … it was giving up on Sam. He shook his head, getting off the bed and walking to the desk. He poured himself a double and swallowed half in the first mouthful.

He'd already failed Sam. Failed his father. He hadn't been able to stop anything from leading them down this road. He'd betrayed Anna. He'd led Ellen and Jo to their deaths. He'd failed the world once when he'd broken the seal. He wasn't going to fail it again.

He tipped up the glass and saw his brother through the mirror, standing in the open doorway.

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana, 2011**_

Dean lifted his head and looked around. The house was silent, like the street outside.

He didn't think he'd do anything differently, if he had the chance to do it again. He still couldn't see how he could have changed the things that had driven him to that point. Losing faith in his brother. In himself. In everything.

Bobby had seen it as another Winchester self-sacrifice. But it hadn't been like that, not really. He'd just wanted to minimise the damage. To limit the losses. And it had been the revelation that God still considered him to be a servant of Heaven that had made the choice clear.

None of that mattered now. He remembered the sick feeling of shock when he'd seen Lucifer looking out of his brother's eyes and had known that Sam's chances of getting a head-lock on the fallen angel had only ever been a fantasy. He remembered the surprise of still being alive when Sam had taken the devil down into the ground and the earth had closed up over them both.

He'd lost his faith in Sam and regained it and none of it mattered because it was too late.

_(And Ellie hadn't come back, even when the world was mostly back to normal)_

He stood up abruptly and walked to the kitchen. Standing there, not knowing why he'd come in, the streetlights slatted by the blinds to lines on the floor. He couldn't think about this stuff anymore, it wasn't who he was anymore. He didn't know who that was now but it wasn't the man who'd decided to give himself to an archangel to save half a world. It wasn't the man who'd lain on a rooftop and killed a werewolf with a chest hit at a hundred yards. It wasn't the man who'd made a deal with a demon to save the life of his brother. Who'd hunted in the dark to save people from the things they didn't even know existed.

But it was. It always would be. He'd been those things. Done those things. Lived them.

He couldn't tell Lisa about it. Just bits and pieces. The cases that had worked out. Some of them. But he couldn't tell her about Sam. Or Bobby. Not about Rufus, or Ellen or Jo. Not about Pamela or Anna. Not about Hell. Not about Cas. And not about Ellie.

He sat down on the stairs, dragging in a breath.

"_Like how? Like your kind of bad?"_

_He'd stood on her porch and seen fear in her eyes as she'd said it. His kind of bad. His world. His life._

He hadn't stayed. He could've. He'd stayed in Cicero … just not with her. At the time, it'd been a conscious decision that he didn't want to have to explain any more to her. Let her keep her illusions about the safe, normal life she'd been living. Her and Ben.

Now he was here. With them. And he still didn't want her to know about it. Still wanted them to keep their safe, normal lives. He hadn't really thought about how that would work. He'd thought he could put everything behind him and pretend like none of it had happened. He didn't talk about the past. He'd laid the protection down, in the house, around the house and he knew she vacuumed around the holy water, the salt and the shotgun that lay under the bed upstairs. She didn't ask. He didn't tell her.

His kind of bad was what had made him. From the age of four, his life had been that life. There wasn't a moment in it that he could share without having to explain further. To tell her more. And the big things, the things that had changed him, that had made him … they were all his kind of bad.

Sammy. His mother. His father. Geny and Valentina. Jim and Caleb. Bobby Singer. And monsters. And ghosts. And werewolves and wendigo and skinwalkers, shapeshifters, vampires … the list was actually extensive and he didn't want to tell her about any of it. He'd tried a couple of times, a couple of stories that had had their amusing moments. There hadn't been many, but those times still brought a smile. He hadn't really realised until he'd starting telling them that they were mixed up with monsters or ghosts or cursed objects, and he couldn't pick out the bad, it was integral. So he'd let the story trail away, smiling slightly as he'd changed the subject and asked about her day, or talked about the latest construction job, the groceries, the weather, Ben's school holidays … he shook his head.

New Year's had nearly been the end. Maybe he should've forced it out then. But he'd told her the truth. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to wander the country, without a reason, without a purpose. He liked sleeping in one bed. Liked a few things about living here. And the promise to Sam still held.

He wasn't himself. Not with them. Not with Sid or the guys he worked with. He was Dean Winchester, slightly mysterious dude who'd blown in and stayed. Didn't say much about himself. Friendly but distant. Sometimes lonelier in this life than he'd been for most of the time in his past.

Lisa didn't ask about him. His past. She seemed perfectly capable of living moment to moment, not needing to know why he sat in silence and stared at the walls. Why he changed the subject when it got too close to his family, or friendships, or previous relationships. He thought she was trying to give him time. But the effect was that he spent a lot of time not saying much at all.

And in the back of his mind, he remembered a life that had been hard and painful but had had good friends. Had had good memories to offset the bad ones. A life where he hadn't felt lonely, hadn't felt alone, even when he had been. He couldn't have it back, that life, it had been gone for a while now but he couldn't stop thinking about it, comparing it to the way he was living now.

_He'd leaned up against the kitchen counter, the hangover pounding behind his eyes, looking sourly at the man on the other side of the room who was pouring out coffee and looking like he'd slept like a baby._

"_You know of any hunters who got out, just went back to normal?" he asked finally._

_Rufus turned his head to look at him speculatively. "No."_

"_That's what I thought," Dean muttered, pulling a pair of sunglasses from his jacket and pushing them over his eyes._

"_Known a few who've settled down though," Rufus said a moment later, as he handed a cup of strong, black coffee to him, taking his own to the table. "Met someone they could tell the truth to, or someone in the life, and managed to make it work. They kept hunting."_

"_How?"_

"_Might've been luck, to run into someone who understood. My wife was twenty-three when we met." He looked up at Dean, seeing his jaw drop, and he smiled, teeth very white against the dark skin._

"_Her family farmed a little, in Nebraska," he said, sipping his coffee, dark eyes half-closed. "Werewolf got her dad, and she met Peg Coulson by chance, looking for something to make sense of what was going on in her town. Peg told me. I went down there, took it out. Beth made me tell her all about it."_

"_We got married a week later, after we'd put down protection around her place," he said, with a wry smile. "She hunted with me for fifteen years."_

_Dean's hands were curled tightly around the cup, the coffee forgotten as he stared at Rufus. "What happened?"_

"_A job went bad," Rufus said shortly, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. "There wasn't anything anyone could do about it. She was in the middle and she died."_

"_I'm sorry, man."_

_Rufus looked away for a moment. "Yeah, me too."_

_He looked down at his cup and sighed softly. "It's riskier than just normal, I guess, but there are a lot out there who are making it work. And risk is a variable that keeps changing, especially these days."_

_He cleared his throat and looked at Dean. "What you can't do is to try and drop out as if this life had nothing to do with you," he said, and the warning had been implicit in his voice. "No relationship is gonna work without honesty. You try and be someone you're not and it will fall apart, usually at the worst possible moment."_

Dean remembered the conversation. A few months before the devil had risen, catching Rufus on the flip-side of a cross-country haul, Sam had headed back to Bobby's a few days ahead of him. The evening before he and Rufus had finished a bottle of Blue and talked about nothing, really. Nothing he could remember in great detail. The morning-after conversation had been different. At the time, he'd wanted to hear that it was impossible. Had wanted to be able to shut down his thoughts about it. The hunter's sketched in recounting hadn't been big on detail but his memories of that time had been clear in his face, in his eyes, warming them. His pain had been clear too.

* * *

He looked up as the hall light came on, and heard Lisa's soft footsteps coming down the stairs behind him.

She sat on the step next to him, and he looked at her.

"Hey, you have another nightmare?"

He shrugged, looking away. "Yeah, couldn't get back to sleep."

"And the stairs are so comfortable?" she asked lightly.

"I … uh," he forced a grin, lifting one shoulder. "Just kind of stopped here."

She sat silently beside him for a few moments and he looked at the floor of the hallway, uncertain of what to say to her.

"Dean, I told you – in January – how I feel," Lisa started hesitantly, not looking at him. "And I know you need time, I wasn't lying when I said I'm happy to take whatever you can give."

He waited, shooting a sideways glance at her when the silence drew out a little. He could hear the 'but' loudly.

"I guess … I just need to know if …," she paused, looking for the words that would sound right, that didn't sound demanding. "There's so much I don't know – about you, what's happened … you can tell me, it's not gonna change the way I feel."

His eyes closed as he drew in a breath. "That – all of that – it's over now. Done. Gone. I can't –" He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I won't put that crap all over you and Ben, Lise, I can't."

"It's you, Dean," she said insistently. "You think I don't hear it when you start to say something and then stop because it's a part of your past, something you don't think you can say? I hear it. I know."

He shook his head tiredly. "You don't want to know about that. _I _don't want you to know about that, to have to deal with it." _I can hardly deal with it myself_, he thought miserably. "I just want to start from now."

"No relationship is going to work without the truth, Dean." She looked down at her hands, tucked into her lap.

It was such an echo of what Rufus had said that he started a little. "I've told you as much as I can, Lisa."

She ducked her head. "What are you afraid of?"

He almost snorted. Christ, what wasn't he afraid of? He'd lost everything he'd cared about. He couldn't lose the little remaining to him. Couldn't go out into that wasteland, pretending that Sam had died a natural death, that he still had a purpose. He could lie to himself and everyone else about a lot of things but not about that.

He heard her exhale. "I'm going to back to bed, you coming?"

She got up, reaching for the banister and half-turning as she waited for him. He shook his head, sneaking a glance at his watch. Half past three. There wasn't much point now.

"No, you go up, I'm going to …" What, he wondered? Stay here by himself? Think harder on the mess that he'd made? Have another drink? "Sit up for a bit longer."

Nodding, Lisa climbed the stairs. The light went out and Dean got up from the step, walking slowly back to the living room.

She was right, he thought. He either had to let her in a bit more or give it up completely because what they were doing wasn't real in any sense of the word. He didn't want to tell her about the crap-fest that had been his life. Didn't want to go through it, explaining the unexplainable, reliving his memories and his past. He sat down in the armchair and leaned back, running a hand over his face.

"_You can't just drop out and pretend that this is all there is." _

Well he was going to have to try because he'd promised Sam. And there was nothing he could for his brother but keep to that promise.

_You're dying here_, Dean. The voice in his mind said softly. _It's not you, this life, because you can't be who you are._

Who am I?

_You're a hunter. You were never ashamed of that before. Never doubted that, no matter what the cost, what you did was worth it._

_Bullshit_. He'd been trying to find a way out for years. Disenchanted with the life, with the pain, the suffering, the insanity of chasing monsters in the dark and risking his life with every single hunt. Ground down by being played by Heaven and Hell, pushed around, turned around. He wanted this peace and quiet. Wanted to mow the lawn. Talk to his neighbours. Be someone else.

_Who's bullshitting who? You can lie all you want to everyone else, but don't lie to yourself. It's a waste of time._

So what if he couldn't be himself? What was so great about him? The insecurities? The fears? The doubts? The memories he had that he couldn't face head on? What could he possibly share that would make this better? He scowled and picked up the bottle, pouring the amber liquid into the glass generously.

_It's who you are. Isn't that enough? Don't you want someone to know you, inside and out, all the flaws and scars and all the things you've done and felt and lived?_

The groan came out through his clenched teeth. Someone did know those things. And look at how that had turned out. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

People changed. He could change. He didn't want to be himself anyway. He didn't want to carry the load that he'd been forced into carrying. He didn't want the memories of what had happened to him, what he'd done. He didn't want any memories at all. Or feelings. Or thoughts of the past. Just a clean, bright, shiny future that didn't include all this crap.

_So everything you struggled for, everything you did, all the good things you did, all the people you saved and the evil you destroyed, you just want to negate all of that?_

"Yes," he said out loud, sick of the conversation in his head. "Yeah."

He waited, for the comeback, but there was nothing but silence in his mind. _Finally_, he thought, lifting the glass to his lips and tipping it up. _Just leave me be_.

* * *

The early morning light came around the edges of the curtains slowly, and Dean watched it. He'd been in despair when he'd made the decision to hand himself over. A choice born of having no other choices in sight. The creeping certainty that Lucifer would have his brother. The slithering doubt that he wouldn't be able to stop that from happening. Loss of hope. A churning tangle of emotions he didn't even know how to categorise, how to deal with, filling him.

He could feel that despair returning for him here. No choices but the one he'd made. No leads on how to get his brother out of the cage. The draining feeling that nothing mattered while he lived here, he was isolated. He was alone, despite the woman and the boy who lived here too. More alone than he'd ever been. A fragment of memory rose and he blinked, remembering the high, delicate sigh of the wind as it had blown through the …


	10. Chapter 10 Empty Heart

**Chapter 10 Empty Heart**

* * *

_**Navajo Reservation, Arizona, 2003**_

…through the steep canyons, the breeze moaning softly as it twisted through the fantastically shaped rocks. Dean wiped his face and let the sweat on his hand soak into his shirt, the bleached and threadbare chambray darkening immediately.

_Leave no part of yourself behind._

A hundred yards ahead of him, the old man walked steadily across the shifting sands and scattered gravel, the bare soles of his leather-hard feet leaving almost no track. He hurried to catch up, oven-dry air going in and out of his lungs. He ignored the thirst, the dryness of his mouth and throat, and followed Tomas Tsinnie up the loose slope and out of the shade of the canyon.

The plateau was very high, the wind cooler, but the sun hotter, the light reflecting back from the rock and sand.

Beside a haphazardly pile of broken rock, he stopped, off the skyline and in the khaki-toned shadows, watching a single bird riding the thermals and circling slowly. Turkey vulture, his mind supplied the species effortlessly. He wasn't sure how'd he learned that, Tomas had barely spoken in the first few days, and not much more in the last three weeks. He just somehow knew it, the same way he knew that the distinctive five-toed tracks in the sand near his feet were made by a rock squirrel, looking for shade before the sun rose too much further, the same way he knew that what he could smell, on the warm, dry breeze, was a combination of saltbush and hopsage, the oil-filled leaves bruised by the freshening wind and releasing their scents.

He walked away from the rocks, his feet bare and hardened up now, hardly noticing the sharp rock and spiny grasses under them. He didn't need to look back to see that he wasn't leaving an easily recognisable trail, keeping mostly to the pitted rock and scattered swathes of gravel, his gaze on the ground ahead of him, observing the tracks and trails of the creatures that lived there, the path the water took, where the wind came around the curves of the rocks and how strong it had been and where it had died away.

There was a small tuft of uprooted grass next to the natural chimney and he stopped, moving lightly around the edge of the crumbling rock. He found a stable area and sat down, legs dangling into the tawny darkness. Leaning forward, he let himself drop down into the narrow opening, hands catching the edges of the protruding rocks, his feet finding crevices. He disappeared into the cooler depths of the rock quickly.

* * *

_**Four weeks earlier. Winslow, Arizona, 2003**_

Dean scowled as he felt the hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his warm cocoon of sleep and peace and rest.

"Come on, move your ass." John's voice rumbled behind him and he opened his eyes with a gusty exhale, squinting at his watch.

"It's … it's four a.m.!" He stared at the figures in disbelief.

"Yeah, get moving," his father said, a slight edge along the rough velvet voice.

_Four in the morning_, Dean ground his teeth together, but silently. No hunt, no prep work today, he was entitled to a sleep in, once in a while.

He heard his father's deep exhale behind and opened his eyes, pushing himself upright resignedly and reaching for his clothes. They'd pulled into Winslow last night, after a two-day drive from Blue Earth.

Picking up the gear bag from the end of the bed, he was surprised when John shook his head.

"You won't need that, and I'll be coming back here," his father told him, handing him a cup of hot, black coffee.

"And what am I doing?" he asked, watching John move around the room.

"You're going on a hike," John said, stopping for a moment and giving him a one-sided grin, looking entirely too pleased with himself for comfort.

"A hike."

"Yep."

Dean sighed and finished his coffee. He wasn't going to get any more information than that until his father was ready to tell him.

* * *

The Impala threw clouds of dust up behind them, the strong, cold wind blowing it sideways from the road, lit briefly by their taillights and then gone in the black of the night. John drove steadily over the rough gravel road, swerving occasionally to avoid the worst of the potholes and washouts, the headlights picking out few details as they drove north.

He was slowing down, and Dean saw the first buildings; low, single-storey mud-brick or adobe, frame and weatherboard houses with low-pitched gables, here and there trailers with additions tacked on. The headlights lit them up and left them in darkness as John kept going. A little way past the last, the lights hit a small, lone building, and his father pulled off the road in front of it, turning off the engine.

Dean looked at him, one brow raised quizzically. Smiling, John shook his head and got out of the car, the short double-rap of his knuckles on the roof galvanising his son into getting out as well.

The door to the small, square building opened, light spilling across the dirt and Dean looked at the old man standing in the doorway curiously as he followed his father over to him.

Long, iron-grey hair was drawn back from a deeply seamed and creased face, the wrinkled skin the warm brown of tanned leather, cheekbones and jawline prominent. Dark eyes flickered over him before returning to John, and the man smiled slightly.

"You ready to go?" John looked around at Dean. "This is Tomas Tsinnie. You'll be hiking with him for a few weeks."

Dean's eyes widened disbelievingly as he looked at his father. "What?"

Tomas looked at him, his gaze travelling consideringly down and back up again. "We'll see you at Kayenta."

John nodded and looked at Dean. "Pay attention to Tomas, he'll teach you a lot."

"Wait a minute," Dean said, struggling to find a coherent thought in his head. "Where are you going?"

"Got things to do," John said shortly, walking back to the car.

Dean bit back his response, aware of the man behind him, aware that his father had made his decision and wasn't going to change it, no matter what arguments he could come up with, aware that he'd been trapped neatly.

"I don't have any gear," he said finally as his father got into the car.

A low chuckle came from behind him. "You have too much already."

He turned around and looked at Tsinnie. "I don't have anything!"

The Impala's engine started and his head snapped back around, watching as the black car turned around and headed back the way they'd come. Without him.

"We'll start now," Tomas said, closing the door behind him and plunging them both into darkness. "While it's still cool."

Dean could barely see him, but as his eyes began to adjust, he realised that even by starlight he could make out some things, enough to follow the man as he walked steadily away from the building. He glanced back at the road, seeing the flash of taillights again before they disappeared.

_What the hell was going on?_

* * *

It was a little over an hour later when he realised that he could see clearly, and turned to look east, seeing that the sky had lightened faintly along the horizon. His stomach was rumbling softly, reminding him that he hadn't had breakfast, was carrying nothing to eat, nothing to drink and the boots on his feet were still relatively new and unbroken-in, pinching in some places, rubbing in others.

He hadn't noticed what the old man had been wearing when they'd started walking, but as daylight seeped over the landscape, he saw that Tomas was walking over the hard ground bare foot, each footfall light and leaving almost no mark. Glancing behind, he could see the distinctive tread-mark of his boots, pressed hard into the ground behind him, even where he'd thought he'd gone over gravel. He turned back to look at the way the man was walking, and lightened his stride a little, walking a little more on the balls of his feet.

"So, uh … where are we going?" he asked a few minutes later, hurrying a little to catch up to Tomas.

Tomas gestured vaguely in front of them, his gaze scanning the ground constantly.

"Oh, uh … north?" Dean tried to remember what, if anything, was to the north of them. He wasn't sure of their starting point.

The Diné nodded and kept walking. Dean slowed a little, until he was a few yards behind again. North. _Helpful_._ Not_. He'd looked briefly at the map of the area when they'd come into Winslow. The Grand Canyon was west, he remembered. Flagstaff to the south-west. He couldn't remember seeing anything at all to the north of the town. The Navajo Reservation had been marked on the map … he looked up at the man striding ahead of him. Just the reservation? Miles of high desert and broken, rocky country?

It wasn't a case and it wasn't his father palming him off on a friend while he went chasing after some clue that he wasn't letting his sons in on, he realised with a hollow sensation in his gut that had nothing to do with hunger. This was a test, of some sort. Survival or something along those lines. His brows drew together in frustration. What the hell was he supposed to learn by walking across the desert with a man who didn't talk?

He forgot about his tracks and stomped after Tomas, his steps raising puffs of dust behind him, his stomach grumbling more loudly and a formless anger at his father slowly spreading through him.

By the time Tomas stopped, in the deep shade of an overhanging rock face, Dean's stomach was aching with hunger, he was hot, pretty sure that there was a hell of a blister raised on the back of his heel, and fuming with battened-down fury at John for leaving him here with no explanation and no supplies. He walked into the shade, feeling the slight temperature drop, and watched the old man hunker down beside a shrub. Tomas picked up a stick and started to dig in the hard soil.

He felt his eyes widen slightly as he watched the soil darken slowly, then begin to glisten with moisture. Tomas dug a little over twelve inches down and waited, as water pooled in the bottom of the hole, rising slowly.

Dipping a hand into the hole, Tomas drank the mouthful, looking up at Dean and nodding.

"Drink," he said quietly. "It's good."

Kneeling beside the hole, Dean scooped a handful of the water out, vaguely surprised by how cold it was. He swallowed a little cautiously, feeling his tongue return to a more normal size in his mouth, his throat soften with the moisture. It was hard, the mineral content pretty high, he thought, but good. He scooped another mouthful hurriedly, feeling his stomach quieten down with something in it.

"Your boots are too tight," Tomas remarked, settling into a comfortable position.

Dean looked up at him, wondering how the hell the old man had known that. He hadn't been limping. He didn't think he had. "They're new, just need breaking in."

Tomas shook his head. "Too tight. Not enough give in the leather around the heel."

"It'll be alright," Dean said stubbornly, hiding the wince as he shifted his foot.

Tomas laughed. "Like your father, rather be in pain than admit you're wrong?"

He scowled at the old man. "Not much I can do about it here, is there?"

"You can take them off," Tomas suggested, the smile still creasing his face.

Dean started to retort that he wouldn't get them back on if he did, then stopped as he looked down at the old man's bare feet.

"I won't be walking at all without them," he said acerbically.

Tomas shook his head. "They'll be sore for a few days, but they'll harden up." He lifted his foot, the sole hard and smooth. "You cannot walk like a ghost with boots."

The odd choice of words rang bells in Dean's mind. Ghostwalkers, not the same thing as skin-walkers, but those warriors who could pass through the land without leaving a sign of it.

Was that what his father had wanted him to learn, he wondered? The habit of obedience was strongly ingrained, and he started to unlace the boots. Tomas smiled slightly and looked away.

* * *

They walked until just before noon, his feet complaining so much that he didn't notice his hunger or thirst. Tomas veered from their general northerly direction and led them more to the west, through a mass of interconnecting arroyos, the rock walls becoming higher as they went. The narrow, twisting stream bed was a surprise when they reached it, a shallow trickle of water at the bottom sparkling in the sunshine, trees and shrubs vividly green to either side, a relief from staring at red and gold and umber and sienna for hours upon end.

Dean walked down to the stream edge and cupped his hands in the shallow flow, splashing the water over his face and neck, drinking deeply, then walking into the stream and revelling in the feel of the cool water soothing the battered soles of his feet. Upstream, Tomas drank deeply, watching the boy from the corner of his eye.

He moved along the stream a little further and sat down in the shade of a small, twisted cottonwood, smiling a little to himself.

Several minutes later, Dean followed him along the stream bank, dropping to sit cross-legged nearby. He looked at the old man's small smile and wondered what he'd done wrong this time.

"What?"

Tomas gestured at the stream with his lips, shrugging. He looked at the water and back at the man.

"Feel good on your feet?" Tomas asked him.

"Yeah," Dean answered, looking down at the white, slightly wrinkled soles of his feet.

"Won't feel so good when you start walking again," the old man said, his grin widening a little. "All that work you done this morning, getting them harder. All gone."

Dean frowned, prodding inconspicuously at the sole with his finger. The flesh gave smoothly, softened and filled with moisture. He looked down and sighed.

Tomas chuckled. "Takes you a while to learn things, huh?"

"I learn faster if I'm told things," he retorted.

The Diné smiled widely. "You're a still a child, then? Have to be told what to do?"

"No," he said, looking down, frustration edging his voice. "It … I …"

He gave up, lapsing into silence, hearing Tomas' small huff of amusement. He should have thought of it, he knew. He felt like a child, in the face of the man's knowledge, his years. It wasn't a feeling that sat well with him.

Tomas stretched out on the sandy ground and closed his eyes. "Sleep for a while," he said. "We'll walk later."

Dean glanced at him irritably. He didn't feel like sleeping now. He felt like moving.

"You can waste your energy being angry, or you can rest," Tomas said quietly, his eyes still closed.

There was no rebuke in the mild tone, which made it worse. He leaned back, shifting uncomfortably as odd stones, tufts of grass and a branch dug into him and looked up at the pale green canopy overhead, the leaves moving a little in the fitful breeze that twisted along the canyon floor.

* * *

_**One week, ninety miles later.**_

Dean stopped in the middle of the dried-out sand hollow and dropped to his knees, starting to dig. The loose sand flew out behind him and he reached a deeper layer of black clay within a few minutes, feeling the moisture in it cool against his fingertips. He widened the hole, banking the sides with rock as he dug deeper, rewarded by the glint of water a few moments later, the liquid rising slowly in the hole and held by the clay and rock sides.

Behind him, Tomas crouched, waiting patiently as the hole filled. They cupped their hands in the clean groundwater, not letting a drop fall, drinking until they were full and piling the hole with rock when they'd finished. Looking up at the clear blue sky, Dean thought it was about time to find some shade and rest. He walked up the stream bed, following it as the valley walls narrowed, and stopped in the deep shade beneath an overhang. Tomas followed him silently, nodding slightly as he sat down.

Neither had said a word for two days, but the lack of conversation no longer seemed strange to him. There wasn't much that couldn't be indicated by hand or look or expression and he found he didn't much want to talk. He watched the old man, looked for what he was looking at, and followed Tomas' eye-line, seeing things he would have missed otherwise. The track of a sidewinder across a sandy patch between two buried rocks. A cactus, laden with small, sweet, moisture-laden fruit, almost hidden behind a thin stand of larger, twisted acacia. The winding path of the wind on the top of the mesa, showing the hotter and cooler sections of rock as it meandered across them.

They walked from before dawn until around noon every morning, stopping and resting or sleeping in the heat of the day. For every mile they made north, it might take three or four miles of east-west travel, the broken ground dictating the direction and the pace. They would start walking again as the rocks and canyons and sweeping gravel plains were painted in shades of dusk, in lavenders and mauves, indigo and a blue-grey-pink that he didn't know how to describe. The desert dwellers came out at the same time, venturing cautiously to feed and drink in the rapidly darkening landscape.

He'd made a short bow of juniper, the flex in the dry wood sufficient to provide a reasonable draw weight for the bow's length. It took him six attempts before Tomas didn't sniff at it and turn away. The string was made from jackrabbit gut, dried and twisted into a solid length, without much creep or stretch. Like the native hunters he was emulating, the bow's limited range required a much closer approach than he was used to, greater stealth, greater skill … and a lot of patience. Dusk or dawn were the times he could get closest to the wildlife, as they came out after the punishing heat of the day had gone. He'd learned to move slowly enough to be imperceptible. He'd learned to move without making a sound or moving a leaf or blade of grass. He'd learned to wait, to make each arrow count.

He was glad to be done with eating lizards and frogs.

The jackrabbit was big, brindle fur filled out over the haunches, sitting upright like a dog, its ears flicked back and forth, moving ceaselessly. Dean shifted his weight soundlessly, looking down the straight arrow's length at the side of the animal. He released the string and watched the rabbit topple onto its side, a violent movement in a thick patch of grass a yard away revealing the presence of another.

One was enough. He rose from his crouch and walked to the rabbit, noting that the shot had been a clean kill and pulling the arrow carefully out. Carrying the animal back along the arroyo, he kept unconsciously to the rock face, senses stretched out automatically, the noises heard identified and filed away without further need of analysis.

The small fire was smokeless, just a soft flicker of air above it, wavering and distorting the face of the old man who sat on the other side, feeding it twig by twig.

After every scrap of the roasted flesh had been cleaned from the bones, they buried the remains along with the fire and started walking again, into the night. The moon had been waxing for three days and the dim silver light showed the ground clearly, the shadows as crisp and black as paint, the rich, vibrant colours washed out to pale grey.

The hours of darkness were cold, the wind stronger as the land shed the heat it had gathered through the day. Above them, far from any light pollution that mankind could make, the sky was an unending sheet of black velvet, filled with a trillion stars, shining like diamonds, scattered across it in swathes and swirls, some parts so densely packed that the individual stars couldn't be seen, just a blazing glow of light.

Dean knew most of the constellations that he could see. Could find his way using them as guides, taking a bearing from a distant landmark along their directional paths. His father had taught him when he'd been young, taught both him and Sammy about the stars and how to use them. They seemed like old friends in this inhospitable place.

His feet were hardening, nothing like Tomas', but able to handle most of the rough ground now. He paid attention to where he put them, choosing the ground for grip as well as invisibility in leaving signs of his trail. He couldn't ever remember spending so much time looking at the ground – looking at everything – in such detail. It required little effort from him, his eyes moving from side to side automatically, his feet following without him having to think about where to go.

There wasn't a lot of noise in the desert. There were noises, of course, more and more if he concentrated on listening for them, but it was a place with a depth of peace that he hadn't really encountered before, a place where the wind spoke almost all the time, but softly, where his thoughts were loud and had a clarity that disturbed him, as if they belonged to someone else, someone he didn't know very well.

He'd been vaguely aware, for a long time now, that he paid more attention to what his father did, how his father thought, than he did to himself. It seemed natural, to work hard to be more like John Winchester, a role model without equal. His father was a Marine, decorated in war; a hunter, adept and experienced, a man who saved people's lives, even when they didn't know they were being saved. He was a man who commanded respect, who never gave in or gave up or showed any of the weaknesses he perceived in himself.

It wasn't so much that he lacked courage, he thought, following Tomas without needing to look up, following the almost-not-there tracks that the old man left, close enough behind him that they were still there. As he walked along the same way, the grains of sand, the compressed grasses, the half-rolled rocks, shifted and settled and dried, leaving no trace of their passing. He didn't think of himself getting injured or dying, when they were on a job or in a dangerous situation. That wasn't the problem. It was that he was afraid that he wasn't fast enough, skilled enough, smart enough, to keep his father and brother safe. He could follow a monster's path, anticipating what it would do, where it would go, how it would attack … and that made him a good hunter. Good enough that his father had told him so, several times now. But he could also see other things. Why the monster did what it did. And what it would do if he couldn't stop it. What it would do to his family, or to the people who were depending on him. And those images, the certainty of those visions scared the hell out of him.

In some ways, it drove him further, harder, than he might've gone otherwise. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He didn't think there was anything he wouldn't do, when it came to protecting his family.

They walked until the heavens shifted and midnight had come and gone, finding a cave or an overhang to spend the rest of the night, curling up and closing their eyes, sleep coming quickly every time.

* * *

The sun was baking him, the sweat rolling down into his eyes was both itching and stinging. Crouched in a small, dense patch of yucca, he couldn't believe he'd chosen this spot to wait and watch. The plants gave no shade and blocked out the small zephyrs of moving air that sighed along the ground, making him feel as if he was inside a pot, slowly roasting. Rolling his eyes downward, he could see his watch, and they'd been in the one position for two hours now, the old man a couple of yards away, next to the rock soak, not a muscle or hair moving, blending in somehow with the tall dry grass he was sitting in, apparently oblivious to the heat, the length of time, aching muscles, itches or anything else. The ground squirrel had come close to the entrance between the two slabs of rock twice now but had remained cautious about coming out. It was too small to eat. Too small to be of any use, Dean thought irritably, except as an exercise in patience. He'd tracked it from the rock pool, over the bare rock and sand and hard clay and Tomas had crouched down and since then, they'd been waiting.

It took another hour for the squirrel to feel confident enough to come out. Dean stared at it as it moved in stuttering jerks over the gravel in front of its burrow. As if it could feel the intensity of his eyes, the squirrel stopped, sitting high on its hind legs, eyes wide and nose twitching. He let his thoughts drift away from it, and watched as it slowly dropped to the ground. Was that some kind of psychic awareness, he wondered distantly, or just hyper-sensitivity? The question, so irrelevant to what he was doing, the discomfort he was feeling, relaxed him. He watched Tomas shift incrementally and silently from the grass, his hand flashing out without warning and snatching the squirrel in the fraction of a second that its attention was turned from him.

Dean let out his breath slowly and Tomas put the squirrel back on the ground, both of them watching its chaotically frantic attempts to get back to safety past him.

Tomas looked over at him, one brow raised. Dean nodded, ducking his head. They stood up and stretched a little, and turned together to walk down to the shade of the canyon floor.

* * *

They stopped early, the build-up of heat and moisture relentlessly swift. Tomas led him up through a tight, walled throat in the rock, and when they reached the plateau above the canyon's walls, he saw the thick, black line of cloud, covering the horizon to the south-east; could hear, over the moaning of the wind in the rocks, the distant mutter of thunder.

Walking along the cliff edge, he could feel the wind gusting and plucking at him, strengthening every minute. The line of cloud was growing rapidly. They descended a milder slope, switch-backing to and fro across the incline until they reached the flat valley floor. In the rising rock walls on the other side of the valley, Dean saw the caves, honeycombing the vertical cliff-face, many of them partially or completely filled in with rocks, mortared together with a crumbling sand and mud and straw mixture. Tomas walked unhurriedly across the flat ground, looking over the choice of caves carefully. He climbed to a broad ledge, twenty feet above the valley floor, and ducked his head as he entered the partially walled cave.

Inside, it was completely still and quiet. To one side, there was a pile of dry wood, in the centre, a neat circle of rocks made a fireplace, kindling and smaller branches already laid. At the back of the cave, a dozen thick blankets in the Diné traditional designs had been left folded neatly. Dean looked around with interest.

Tomas grinned at his expression. "This cave is good to sit out a storm. We try to keep it stocked."

He went to the back of the cave and pulled out two of the blankets, tossing one to Dean. From behind the blankets he retrieved a battered iron cooking pot, two cans of stew, a can opener and a couple of spoons.

Smiling slightly at the items, Dean pulled out his lighter and held the flame under the smallest pieces of kindling. They caught almost immediately and he watched the thin curls of smoke drawn out over the top of the half-wall in the cave's opening.

The storm, when it arrived, was fierce and violent, the wind accelerating down the length of the valley, lightning and thunder crashing and echoing from the high walls, the torrential rain hitting the ground so hard it was bouncing back up. Beyond it, he could hear the small stream roaring, filled with the runoff from the rock, rising rapidly in its bed, a tossing, heaving, white-water cascade.

Dean watched the show nature was providing, seated by the crude opening as he ate his half of the stew, the crash and tumult a sharp contrast with the warm, light-filled and dry comfort of the cave behind him.

He could almost hear the dry earth drinking the water greedily as it fell. Could almost see the rock pools and stream beds and waterholes across the great dry stretch of land filling and overflowing, the abundance of water giving life to millions of seeds and eggs, new generations that would rise and mature and replicate themselves and perish when the water was gone. It was a cycle he'd learned about much earlier, and mostly unwillingly in school, but it had had no resonance in him until now, until he'd seen for himself the determination of the creatures that lived here, surviving from rainfall to rainfall to keep their kind going, on and on.

He looked at the wall beside him. The people who had built it had come and gone hundreds of years before. The Diné called them the _Anaasází_, and he'd used their symbols, seen them drawn out for protection. The historians called them the Ancient Pueblo, prehistoric farmers and architects. He'd done a paper on them in his last year of school, attracted to the topic by the fact that Bobby had told him quite a bit when he'd drawn the circle to protect their camp from the wendigo they'd been hunting. The camp had been protected, he had not. He'd missed the final showdown and had woken up in a hospital.

His fingers unconsciously found the deep, puckered scars on his stomach, brushing over them. Bobby'd been angry, when he'd come to. His father … his father had been strange. Angry. Protective. Indulgent. Indecisive. For a few months afterward. He'd never found out why. He'd meant to ask Bobby about it, but he'd never done it.

He frowned. Had it been then or around then that his father had started to withdraw? Little by little, hunting more on his own, saying he was looking into stuff, leaving him and Sam with Bobby and Jim and Caleb more often, for longer periods?

The wind shifted as the storm passed over and the fire in the cave flickered, throwing shadows over the walls and bringing the deeply rich scent of wet earth and growing, living things to him. He shifted back behind the wall as the rain began to ease, falling with less violence, no longer beating the ground but caressing it.

* * *

_**Three weeks, one hundred and ninety eight miles later**_

Tomas stopped, looking to one side, his dark eyes narrowed and contemplative. Dean stopped next to him, following his gaze, seeing the scatter of sand over the rock ledge, the pressed-down grass shoots beside it. He walked to the ledge and hunkered down, resting an arm on his knee as he gently touched a small rock that had clearly rolled from the patch of gravel on the other side of the ledge. He stood up and stepped over the tells on the ground, looking down at the softer soil on the other side of the rock. There was a boot track there, heavier in the heel that on the ball, the tread pressed deeply into the soil. _A big man, maybe carrying a lot of weight out front since he walked over his heels_. The tread was crisp, not much wear to either side, deep indentations in the pattern. _New boots, or boots that weren't worn much_. A couple of feet away, he saw a scrap of foil, caught in a narrow crevice between two larger rocks. He turned his head, looking back over his shoulder at Tomas. The old man nodded indulgently and Dean straightened up, his gaze fixed to the ground, leading them east along the trail made by the man.

It took two hours to catch up with him and Dean frowned slightly as he saw where he'd been wrong in his assessment. The man was tall but not fat. The weight he'd been compensating for was a surveyor's total station, tripod and pole. People usually carried removable weight on their shoulders and back, giving them a different weight distribution that could be deduced from their tracks. This guy seemed to have balanced the weight over his shoulders. He would have to remember that.

He felt Tomas' fingers brush his sleeve and he backed silently away from the man, slipping through the rock shadows until they were out of the canyon. Tomas was frowning slightly, and he lifted an eyebrow questioningly. The old man shook his head slightly and walked on.

They were on the reservation, Dean remembered. No one was allowed to be here, _they_ weren't supposed to be here. What the hell was a surveyor doing out here?

* * *

Tomas remained remote and withdrawn for the rest of the day, his face shuttered. Dean watched him obliquely, from the corner of his eye when he thought the old man wouldn't notice, a trace of worry in the back of his mind. The worry got stronger when they didn't move after eating, Tomas shaking his head and staring into the small flames that were sheltered from the wind and shielded from sight by the shallow cave's walls and a carefully built rock wall at the cave's opening.

"What's wrong?" he said, the words sounding too loud in the silence, out of place and stiff and uncomfortable in his mouth.

"Nothing," the old man said, his voice soft. "Tonight we'll stay here, sleep. Rest."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged inwardly, pushing his questions aside and lying down on the sandy cave floor, one arm tucked under his head. He closed his eyes.

* * *

He woke just after midnight, the usual four hours. Even before he'd opened his eyes, he knew he was alone, his senses attuned to the presence of the old man … and to his absence.

_Perfect._

Sitting up, he stirred the embers of the fire, wondering what he was supposed to do. Stay here, wait for him to turn up again? Or keep heading north on his own?

He leaned over and put another few pieces of wood on the fire, watching it catch. He would stay until the usual time to leave, he thought. Tomas had been disturbed by the sight of the surveyor. Maybe the old man had gone off to think about it without anyone else around?

* * *

Dean saw the bird against the first paling of the eastern sky, circling warily. He changed direction and headed for it, moving fast over the broken rock and coarse sand, already knowing what he would find at the bottom of the canyon.

He stopped when the smell hit him, recognising the thick, sweetish-coppery tang and the first faint outriders of decomposition. Shadows swept over him, long and attenuated, and he looked up as the carrion bird was joined by two others.

The ground was once again bone-dry, nothing left to show the storm that had passed over and flooded these narrow arroyos and ravines. His toes curled around the rocks, securing his footholds as he hurried down the steep side of the canyon. The floor was dark, the night's cool shadows still filling the twists and turns. He slowed slightly on the last bend, senses stretched out ahead of him, instinctively shifting to the rock wall and dropping to a crouch before he looked around it.

The body lay on the other side. The surveyor. Dean recognised the man's boot soles. He waited for a moment by the outthrust rock of the bend, then walked over to him. Even in the dimness of the canyon's floor, the massive injury to the man's throat was clearly visible … windpipe and everything back to the spine had been torn out completely. The chest cavity had been opened, the ribs broken through and leaning over, Dean saw that the heart was gone. Under the man, the blood had soaked into the thirsty ground.

Werewolf, he thought, looking around. The moon would be full for another two nights. He looked down, and stopped moving as he saw the tracks, pressed into the blood-soaked earth, continuing out of it along the sand that lay thinly over the rock on the canyon floor. He looked back at the body, crouching next to its side. In one hand, a fistful of hairs still adhered to the skin. He pulled one off carefully, holding it up against the brighter sky. Four inches long, it wasn't human, nor was it the coarse, thick hair of a werewolf.

"Skin-walker."

Dean nodded, unsurprised that Tomas had found him, found the body, knew what had happened.

The tracks were canine. A biggish dog, maybe a Shepherd, something around that size. The throat had been taken in one bite.

He turned his head, rising to his feet. "Was that why you left?"

"No." Tomas looked down at the body. "It's why I came back."

* * *

The tracks led out of the canyon and onto the plateau. Tomas walked slowly, his gaze scanning the ground ceaselessly. Behind him, Dean did the same. On an outcropping of rock, a mile from the body, he found a scrap of cloth, plaid cotton, from a shirt, he thought. Another mile further, Tomas stopped and looked at the branch of a small juniper, his eyes shadowed. Dean stepped close and saw a tuft of hairs, greyish, shorter than the dog hair the victim had been clutching.

He turned to look at the old man. "What are they?"

"Coyote," Tomas answered, turning away.

In Diné legend, the skin-walker was an evil man or woman, cursed by the murder of a family member, able to transform into an animal by wearing the pelt of a coyote. The dog tracks had disappeared once they'd left the canyon. Dean had seen the slurred and scuffed tracks that had kept going. A man's tracks, the outline of the foot disguised by the strips of yucca tied around the feet, blurring the edges, dragging the sand down as he'd walked.

They followed the tracks through the day and into the evening, and the lights of Kayenta twinkled and winked in the distance, bright against the blackness of the desert night.

* * *

The man had camped in a dry stream bed, unwilling perhaps to go on in the dark. Dean looked down at the dying fire from the rim of the arroyo, aware of Tomas lying prone a few feet away.

Skin-walkers could only be killed by silver to the heart, he thought. He had no gun, no silver. His arrows were hardened wood, charred and sharpened and charred again. They might slow the sonofabitch down, if he got enough of them in him, but they wouldn't kill.

There was no movement, no sound, but Tomas was beside him, the old man's breath soft against his ear. "One arrow, Dean. To the left eye."

Then he was gone, a darker shadow against the darkness for a moment, then only the darkness.

Dean looked down at the sleeping man. He would need to be closer, a lot closer. He would need to be as silent as a ghost.

He slipped the simple quiver from his shoulder, and took out a single arrow, laying it next to his bow. He shivered a little as he pulled off his shirt, and t-shirt, but plain skin would hide better than the patterned shirt against the rock and sand banks of the stream bed and he wanted to be as close to invisible as he could get. Bracing the bow, he slid the string over the bottom, then the top nock and picked up the arrow. He looked down at the patterns the firelight threw over the ground and the banks of the arroyo, and chose a path that would give him the best cover and the best chance of silence.

In the mottled and flickering shadows, he moved from rock to rock. Sand hissed slightly when it moved, not a big sound but a distinctive one. The grains remained packed and unmoving as he shifted imperceptibly between one shadow and the next, unhurried, feeling an easiness with himself and the night, leaving no trace at all.

When he reached the stream bed, he was five yards from the man, the fire in between them. He nocked the arrow on the string and drew the bow back, following the straight line of the arrow shaft to its target, feeling the wood and the gut and the power in both, looking for the point where the power was maximised and the accuracy would be the greatest. Then he let go.

The arrow penetrated the full length of the shaft, through the eye socket on a downward trajectory to the base of the skull. Dean froze as the man erupted from his sleep, his scream echoing wildly around the close confines of the arroyo. The skin-walker leapt to his feet, his uninjured eye rolling around as he dragged the arrow from his head. Blood flowed down his face and he turned and ran, staggering from side to side. Depth perception ruined by the loss of the eye, Dean thought, watching him.

Stay or follow, he wondered? Tomas hadn't indicated either course. Between the blood trail and the weaving, the man's trail wouldn't be difficult to follow in any case. He decided to stay, getting to his feet. He climbed back up the side of the arroyo and retrieved the quiver, pulling on his t-shirt and the slightly warmer plaid shirt. He unstrung the bow and coiled the string, and walked along the edge of the arroyo until he saw what he wanted. The hollow in the rock wall above the stream was clean and dry, the sand covering the rock thick. He stretched out under the shelter and closed his eyes.

* * *

_**Navajo Reservation, Arizona, 2003.**_

Under the ground, the air was cool and damp, his throat and lungs delighting in the relief from the dry outside air. The light from the chimney disappeared at the first bend in the water-formed tunnel, but he could see a glimmer of light ahead and he walked toward it.

Tomas sat in a wide, deep cavern, the flashlight beside him pointing at the roof, a shallow rock pool to one side of him. He looked at the pool as Dean entered the space, and drew out a bottle of beer from the water, passing it over as Dean dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of him, drawing a second bottle out for himself.

"Your father killed the skin-walker when it entered Kayenta," he said, knocking the top off on the edge of a rock and swallowing a mouthful.

The arrow wound had just been to identify him, Dean thought, nodding as he tipped his bottle back and tasted the cold bubbles on his tongue.

"How'd you get in contact with him?"

Tomas smiled slyly. "The mesa gets good phone coverage."

Dean snorted, coughing as his beer filled his throat. So much for being out of touch with the rest of the world, he thought, wiping his eyes and mouth. He cleared his throat and swallowed another mouthful.

"You're not going to tell that you're really an insurance salesman, are you?"

The old man looked at him steadily. "Vacuum cleaners, actually."

He ducked his head, hiding a smile. "How far to Kayenta?"

"From here?" Tomas shrugged. "We can be there by supper."

For a moment, the idea of having a steak for supper, with fries and that barbecue mesquite sauce everyone served around here, followed by a long, hot shower, followed by a night's sleep in a soft bed, seemed to encompass all his past, present and future ambitions. He couldn't imagine sleeping in a bed … it seemed … it seemed completely surreal, he thought. Everything seemed surreal. The last four weeks. His life before that. What was to come. All of it. Surreal.

The last four weeks had given him something but he wasn't sure what it was yet. Something of his own. Something that didn't belong to anyone else, wasn't shared with anyone else.

He finished his beer and looked at Tomas. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

_**Kayenta, Arizona 2003**_

"Dean, finish up in there," his father growled from the other side of the bathroom door. He wrapped the towel around his hips and wiped the steam from the mirror, looking at his face. It was leaner, he realised. Shouldn't have come as a shock since he was using a new hole on his belt as well. He hadn't lost much weight, just … gotten rid of anything that hadn't been muscle, he thought. His nose and the back of his neck were peeling, and he needed a haircut, the top was beginning to fall over his forehead. He didn't look at his eyes.

"Coming," he said, and turned away, opening the door and walking out into the room. A long, hot shower. A good meal. And a night's sleep in a soft bed.

Tomorrow they'd be on the road, heading north. His father had found something in Nebraska. He'd probably hear all about it while they ate. He dropped the towel and pulled on a clean pair of jeans, fishing around in his duffle for a t-shirt. The room was silent and he felt his father's gaze on him.

"What?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder as his fingers found the shirt and pulled it out.

"What did you think of the desert?" John asked diffidently, his expression somewhere between concern and half-concealed admiration.

Dean pulled the shirt over his head. "It was hot in the day and cold at night."

His father snorted. "You learn anything useful?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling out a rolled up ball of socks, looking down at them for a moment as he considered that. "A lot, I think."

Unrolling the socks, he pulled one on, his fingertips brushing against the hardness of his bare sole. "Nothing I can really describe," he added more quietly.

John nodded, looking at the floor. "Well, get a move on, they won't stay open all night."

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana, 2011**_

Dean let out his breath, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. He hadn't thought of that time in years.

He should have stayed there, he thought tiredly. Stayed in the high desert and faced up to himself, what he'd really wanted, what had really been important to him. But he hadn't. Sam had been in school and he'd told himself that his father had needed him, needed someone to guard his back and he'd put all it all aside and pretended he hadn't known what he'd felt and thought and wished for. It hadn't been until Sam had left, just up and walked off in Indiana, that he'd let himself think of those things again. By then it'd been way too late. He'd meant what he'd said to his brother, though. Really meant it.

Looking at the glass in his hand, he smiled, a little bitterly. It wasn't as though he would change anything if he had the chance to do it again. Even now, the thought of leaving his father alone, at that time, was impossible. Even knowing that John would abandon him in another couple of years' time. And he still didn't know why, not for sure, not from his father.

All those decisions, made from a combination of loyalty, and love, fear and desperation. He'd wanted to be a hunter, to be by his father's side. And then he'd needed to protect Sam, keep him safe. He'd failed at both of those jobs.

When the noise and distractions and the running all fade away, and there's just silence and stillness, that's when the truth comes out. He'd known that down in Arizona, had felt the peace and the harshness and the beauty of the place seeping into his bones, into his heart, into his soul. He'd wanted something different back then, something of his own. But he'd given it up deliberately, not to protect his family. Not to save people from the things that hunted in the dark. Not even to kill the demon that had taken his life – the life he was supposed to have – and ripped it to shreds.

He'd given it up because he was afraid to be himself. Afraid to know himself. It was easier to be his father. Easier to do what he'd spent his life training to do. Easier, in some cock-eyed and twisted way, to think of himself as a warrior, put on the planet to put himself between the forces of evil and the victims they sought.

Ironically, it was that life that had given him the reasons to get up in the morning, to keep going, to keep fighting, even when he'd been sure there was no way he could win and nothing to keep fighting for. He leaned back, holding the glass against his temple.

The boy who'd carried too heavy a load. The teenager who'd been desperate to do a man's job. The man who'd lost sight of what he was and why he was doing that job. They were still all him. They weren't his father. They were him. They'd kept him putting one foot in front of the other, no matter what happened, no matter obstacles were placed in his way. He'd come so close to realising that, before Raphael had showed up. He'd come almost as close when he'd told his brother he'd back his play to bring the devil down. What had held him back?

The same thing as always, he guessed. _Fear_. The conviction that he wasn't, couldn't be, the man he'd thought he'd grow up to be. Because of what he'd done. Or had it gone back earlier than that? Gone back to the fear of being adrift in a world where everything relied on him, his father vanished and out of contact, every decision had a million unforeseen consequences, and he'd been aware of those, floating around him like ghosts, unable to see them but feeling them in the clammy sweat that coated his palms, in the way his heart had hammered every time he thought he knew what he was doing.

He put the glass down on the table, and dropped his head into his hands. He knew that he'd been uncaring of his own life, back then. Sometimes he'd wondered if he'd looked for ways … it'd never bothered him that he might die on the job. He started as his cell rang, the noise shrill in the …


	11. Chapter 11 What We're Here For

**Chapter 11 What We're Here For**

* * *

_**Morton, Illinois, April 17, 2006**_

… room, shocking him out of sleep, the insistent beeping going on and on and drilling into his aching head. Dean groaned as he tried to open his eyes, the morning light streaming through the half-open curtains stabbing into his brain.

"Shut the damned curtains," he muttered, slamming a hand on the alarm clock beside the bed and pulling the pillow over his face.

Something hit the bed next to him. He opened an eye, lifting the pillow slightly and saw the round, red apple sitting on the bed next to him, flinching back involuntarily at the too-recent memories.

"Hilarious," he said, picking it up and throwing it. He heard the smack of the apple being caught in a hand, then a crunching noise as his brother took a bite.

"These are good for you, you know," Sam said indistinctly, slurping the juice from the fruit.

Dean rolled onto his back, the pillow held over his face. "Just shut the curtains."

"Good for a hangover," Sam added, the clump of his boots heading across the room. The room darkened somewhat with the rattle of the curtain rings over the rod.

"Bacon, eggs, coffee, hair of the dog – all good for a hangover too," his brother retorted, pulling the pillow back and squinting at his watch. "Dude, it's six-thirty!"

"Mmmm … think I might have something, in Iowa," Sam said, going to the table and swivelling the laptop around.

Dean lifted his head slightly, trying to make his eyes focus on the screen. He saw the row of photographs and sat up, teeth gritted as his head gave an almighty throb, the pain shunted aside as he read the details.

"Tylenol, shower, breakfast," he said, lifting his gaze from the screen to his brother. "Iowa."

Sam nodded, switching on the small printer and starting to print out the news reports.

* * *

_**Ottumwa, Iowa, April 18, 2006**_

_You were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life. You've always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I— anyway… I admire that about you. I'm proud of you, Sammy._

Dean stared out the motel room window, not seeing the wind-tossed trees outside, his gaze unfocussed, the open file beside his elbow, the laptop screen in front of him, forgotten as he thought over that conversation. He'd come so close to the truth, so close to disloyalty to his father that he couldn't get it out of his mind.

There hadn't been a choice, not really. Dad needed his help. Sam could go, do what he wanted to do. He'd never wanted to be there anyway, not really, not since he'd been fifteen, anyway. Even before that, Sammy'd preferred normal, preferred safe.

For him, it was different. He didn't have anything else he could do. Didn't want to go to school. Didn't want to have a career or work nine-to-five, some grunge job that paid the bills and turned into a life of the same days, just repeated over and over. And his father needed him.

He was going to die on this job, he knew that. He would've died in Indiana, if his brother hadn't shown up. Well and truly trussed to that tree, no way of getting free and the darkness falling, he'd been trying to think of what he could do so that the girl could at least live, not trying to think of how to save himself.

_Sweetheart, that's what sacrifice means. Giving up something you love for the greater good. The town needs to be safe. The good of the many outweighs the good of the one._

The woman's voice echoed in his mind. In a way, he'd understood the town, what they were doing. But another voice, a deeper voice, told him that sacrifice had to be made freely, had to be given freely to be worthy. Sacrificing someone else against their will, even for the good of the many, that was just murder.

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one. _

The door opened behind him, bringing a gust of cool, rain-scented wind swirling into the room along with his brother, and he looked around, pushing away the uncomfortable thoughts and dragging his attention back to the present.

"You get 'em?" He swivelled around in the straightback chair, resting one arm over the back as he looked at Sam.

"Yeah, and this," Sam said, tossing a newspaper at him as he put down the two paper sacks of food on the tiny kitchen counter, and walked over to the table to drop two laminated identification passes onto it.

Dean picked up one of the passes and looked at it, smiling. The press pass was for the Cedar Rapids Gazette, reproduced perfectly by his geek brother. It would work. He put the pass down and picked up the paper. The front page story was another one. Two children, brother and sister, missing from their home since yesterday afternoon. Grave fears. Police investigation ongoing. No leads.

He looked up as Sam moved the file to one side of the table and passed him the food.

"That's seven so far," he said, lifting the foil-wrapped burger out of the sack and unwrapping it.

Sam nodded. "There's no pattern though," he said, taking a bite of the deli sandwich he held. "Ages are different, parts of town they're taken from, nothing in common with the parents – two of them went missing from the state home, on the other side of town."

Dean frowned, tucking his food into his cheek. "There always something, we just haven't found it yet."

"Yeah, well, the last body was found three days after the kid was taken, so we don't have much time."

"I'll take the cops," he said, chewing. "You want to take the parents?"

Sam grimaced, nodding slowly. He glanced at the laptop.

"You find anything?"

"A few possibilities, nothing concrete. Drowning, kids, we're looking at some kind of water spirit, I think." He looked at the map he'd pinned to the wall next to the table. "There's a lake, and the river, but none of the bodies were found near them, and the coroner's reports said that the water found in the lungs wasn't a match for either. Was treated water, maybe from the reservoir."

"Or maybe from a bathtub or sink," Sam said. "If it's just the town water."

"Yeah."

"So we're back to how it's picking them," Sam said flatly.

"Pretty much. Two taken from inside their homes. One from the park across the road from the house. The two grabbed from the state home were somewhere on the grounds of the place," Dean said, looking at his brother. "Not opportunity snatches. Something else."

Sam finished the sandwich and wadded up the wrapping paper, stuffing it back into the paper bag. He stood up, looking at the map. Dean had marked the victim's homes, and where the bodies had been found. None had been found near water. He took a couple of steps backwards, staring at the map. But there was a pattern. All of the children's bodies had been found in an area of woods to the south of the town.

* * *

Dean pushed the door to the police station open, frowning as he tried to make sense of the last piece of information he'd gotten from the detective who was running the case. He wasn't sure how the hell it applied to the kids who'd been taken.

His phone rang and he pulled it out, pressing it against his ear as he walked across the street to the car.

"Yeah?"

"I think I've got something, but I'm not sure what to make of it," Sam's voice said. "You done with the police?"

"Just this minute, I got something that's left field too." He stopped next to the car and looked up the street. "Where are you?"

"At the state home. Other end of town."

"I'll be there in five," Dean said, unlocking the car and sliding into the driver's seat. He closed the phone and started the engine, pulling out slowly.

* * *

"Alright, get this," Sam said, as he got into the car. "That home is for kids that are too hard for their parents to handle."

Dean looked at him disbelievingly. "How old are those kids?"

"Ages six to eleven," Sam said dryly, nodding at his brother's expression. "I know, it sucks."

"Yeah, but it fits too," he said, looking at the road, and pulling his notebook from his pocket. "The first three kids to be taken had some sort of run in with the cops."

"What?" Sam took the notebook at flicked through the pages. His brow creased up as he read the details. "Come on."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, nothing that a lot of kids wouldn't try at least once, but they got caught."

"Shoplifting. Graffiti. Public nuisance … public nuisance?" Sam looked up from the notes.

"Uh … throwing cans at cars from the bridge," Dean clarified.

"How does any of this help?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I think that one of those water-related spirits has a thing against kids misbehaving," Dean said, his brows drawing together as he tried to remember the details.

"Thin."

"Yeah."

* * *

"Rawhead."

"What?" Sam looked around.

"Rawhead," Dean said, shaking his head. "Shit, I should've remembered that one. Caleb told me about taking one down in '94." He got up from the table and walked to the end of his bed, grabbing his duffle and dropping it on the bed. He pulled his father's journal out and opened it, flipping through the pages.

"Here." He handed the book at the open page to his brother.

Sam took it, looking up at him. "Why didn't we see this before?"

"Read it," Dean said, turning for the door. He walked out to the car and opened the trunk, pulling out a small plastic case and his toolbox and carrying them back inside.

Sam looked up as he came back in. "Nothing about water in here."

"Right," Dean said, setting the case on the table and the toolbox on the floor. "Dad got his info from Caleb, must've missed that bit."

Sam nodded and got up, sitting down on the other side of the table and picking up a pen. He updated the entry with the information they'd found here, looking at Dean.

"So if we have to electrocute it to kill it, how are we going to manage that again?"

Dean opened the plastic case and smiled. Inside, two oddly-shaped black plastic guns sat in their foam packing. He pulled one out and showed Sam.

"Taser? Where the hell did you get that?" Sam stared at the gun, which looked innocuously like something from the toy store, a make-believe ray-gun for a child.

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," Dean said, smirking. He set the gun on the table and pulled out the small screwdriver set from the toolbox, his concentration focussed immediately and completely on what he had to do.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure that when we hit this sucker, it goes down for good," Dean muttered as he unscrewed the gun's casing. He looked up at Sam as he removed it.

"We still need a location, Sammy," he said. "This thing needs somewhere to stash these kids, someplace private, out of the way. You want to check out the county office for anything like that in the area." He glanced at the map thoughtfully. "Someplace like an old mine, or an abandoned house or something around the southern end of town?"

Sam nodded, watching for a moment longer as Dean extracted the circuit board from the inside of the gun and set it on the table, pulling a magnifying glass and soldiering iron from the toolbox.

"You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yeah, go do something useful, will ya."

He moved the glass over the board and looked at the amount of room he'd have for the extra capacitors and diodes. Not much, but it didn't have to be neat, it only had to work.

* * *

Dean put down the iron and looked at the additions to the board under the magnifying glass, checking that the connections were solid, that the multiplier would work as he'd planned. He moved the glass aside when he was satisfied, getting up and going to the small bar fridge to get a beer, leaving the board to cool off.

This stuff, he thought, as he twisted the top off the bottle and carried it back to the table, he was good at. He had an instinctive understanding of how things worked, how they fit together, how the one piece interacted with the next piece. He could fix or build anything mechanical, figure out anything that was linear, with or without a schematic to follow. Picking a lock or tuning a carburettor, tracing the wiring through the car or, he glanced at the table, rewiring a circuit board … those were things he could do.

He sat down on the other side of the table, tipping the bottle up and swallowing a mouthful of beer. And anything to do with any kind of weapon, he was good at that. He didn't know if that was training from a young age, or something innate. Caleb had told him that he had a feel for shooting. He looked out the window, watching the clouds scudding furiously across the darkening sky. There was more rain forecast, but he thought it wouldn't last long. Too much wind.

It would need someplace dark, someplace isolated. The thought drifted into his mind without volition, almost without him noticing it as he stared sightlessly through the window. The children would scream and it would need to be far away from roads and houses and other people so they couldn't hear them. Rawheads had sensitive eyes, they were primarily nocturnal, so a cave, or a mine, or an old house with a basement would be the lair. And someplace that had water nearby, to give power to the spirit inside of the creature.

_They're human – or they were once. The spirit infects a person, no one's really sure how but it keeps them alive, keeps them hunting, so long as they're always close to some kind of water. Doesn't have to be much, boggy ground is enough, a storm-drain with seepage is enough. _

Caleb's voice spoke in his memories, conjuring the dark, windswept hillside they'd been lying on, the first ice in the early winter evening.

_Enough time goes by, and they don't look human anymore. They look … kind of melted … as if their bodies are becoming more like the spirit that's inhabiting them._

_What kills them? he'd asked, keeping his eyes on the dark hillside below them._

_Electricity. You gotta get a current running through the body and maybe it's the connection with the water, I don't know, but it destroys the spirit inside and the human that's left just dies._

Dean blinked at the memory, shaking his head slightly. He should be writing his own journal, he thought, glancing at the leather-bound book lying on the bed. Should be keeping all this knowledge, should be passing it on.

_To who?_ The voice that he occasionally heard in his mind asked derisively. _You're never gonna have anyone to pass this crap on to … and even if you did, why would you want to?_

He got up and walked around the other side of the table, picking up the circuit board with a pair of fine long-nosed pliers and returning it to the interior of the taser's casing. Within a minute, he was completely focussed on the gun, and he barely heard the rumble of the black car's engine when it pulled into the slot in front of the room a half-hour later.

* * *

"Where is it?" Dean leaned forward as the rain pelted over the windshield, the wipers unable to keep up, the road visible in glimpses between the swipes, then disappearing behind a silvery sheet of water until the next one.

"Just past the cemetery, uh, four hundred yards on the right," Sam said, his penlight illuminating the map he held, shielded by his hand.

"You're sure about it?"

"Pretty sure," Sam said, glancing at him. "It's a half-mile from the road, an old, original farmhouse. The owners died and there weren't any next of kin, and the county just let it sit there because there was some structural damage a few years ago from a storm."

Dean nodded, his gaze flicking to the right as a sign gleamed white in the headlights. "That the cemetery?"

Sam saw it as well, nodding as they went past. Dean slowed down a little and leaned back as the rain began to ease, then petered out, stopping altogether at the same time as he saw the gravelled turnoff.

"That was good," Sam remarked, tilting his head to look up at the sky. He could see an occasional star, visible in between the streamers of cloud that were being pushed by the wind.

"Yeah." He slowed down a little more, brows drawn together as he navigated the slushy, water-filled road. "That it?"

Sam looked through the windshield. Ahead of them the road curved into a tight bend and above it, he could make out the outlines of a house. "Yeah, that'll be it."

"Alright," Dean said softly, pushing his foot down a little harder. "If it's in there, we have no chance at surprise, so we're going in fast, find the kids and get them out of there."

Sam nodded.

The car clung to the tight turn and Dean pulled in between the house and a weathered siding fence at the side, turning off the lights and engine and getting out in one move. He was at the trunk, unlocking it and propping up the false floor when Sam joined him. He opened the case and pulled out one taser, passing it to Sam along with a cartridge.

"What do you have those amped up to?" Sam looked down at the plastic gun in his hand, inserting the cartridge.

"A hundred thousand volts," he said, pushing the cartridge into the second gun.

"Damn."

Dean grabbed a flashlight, turning it on. "Yeah, I want this rawhead extra fucking crispy. And remember, you only get one shot with these things," he added, moving the shotgun and letting the lid drop. "So make it count."

He moved to the side door, turning the rusted handle and pushing it open, surprised by the lack of noise. The flashlight beam showed a small utility room, warped floorboards and dripping, mossy walls. The smell was thick, a combination of rotten wood, the sharp woodlands smell of growing fungi and a darker smell underneath, dank and cold, a smell he associated with stone and water, under the ground.

The door led into a short hall, and Dean turned right, following it down to the kitchen.

"Basement," Sam whispered, his light picking out a door beside the old chimney breast. Dean nodded, walking to it and pulling it open. A narrow set of steps led down into the darkness and he stayed to one side, hoping the wood was still strong enough to hold their weight. The smell was very thick here, rising along with a thin draught that ghosted past their legs and out into the room behind them.

They'd moved a few feet from the steps when they heard the noise, a hollow thud somewhere close. Both swung around, flashlight beams flashing over the walls, lighting up the cupboard that sat against the wall on the other side of the room.

Dean looked at it and started to walk toward it, Sam flanking him, both lights and tasers aimed at the distorted doors.

"On three," Dean whispered, getting closer. "One. Two. Three."

He reached out and swung the doors apart, jaw clenching as he saw the children, scrunched up to either side of the small space. He shifted the flashlight beam to their feet, ears straining to hear past them and his brother to the rest of the basement.

Sam crouched down beside the cupboard. "Is it still here?"

The boy nodded, his eyes huge in the light and Dean leaned forward to take his hand.

"Okay." Dean looked at the boy. "Grab your sister's hand, come on, we gotta get you out of here." He looked around, dropping the flashlight lower, trying to see through the shadows in the room for any sign of movement. Sam took the girl's hand and he watched as the little boy gripped her other hand, the three of them moving away from the cupboard.

"Let's go, let's go," he muttered, raising the taser and backing after them, the light shifting across the walls as he swept it right around. He looked over his shoulder, seeing that his brother and the children had made it to the foot of the stairs.

"Alright, go!" he said, his back to them, watching the darkness at the edge of the beam. He turned and started to follow them up, wondering if it could be this smooth, when Sam crashed to the steps in front of him, sending him back down the stairs, the children screaming as they ran for the doorway.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, shifting fast around the foot of the stairs to the space underneath, the flashlight lighting up ragged clothes and a misshapen head and his finger squeezing the trigger smoothly.

_Goddammit!_ The prongs had missed. "Sam, get 'em outta here!"

Sam sat on the stairs, staring down at the light in his brother's hand. "Here take this!"

Dean caught the gun, holding flashlight and barrel together again, hearing his brother run up the stairs and take the children from the house.

"Come on," he growled, moving smoothly from the wall near the stairs around the floor. At the other end of the room, old furniture, cases and drums were stacked on the floor and along the walls, and the light made every shadow jump.

He felt the water seeping into his boots at the same time as he heard the splash of his feet moving through it. Two or three inches deep, he thought remotely, an alarm going off somewhere at the back of his mind at that knowledge but he couldn't take the time to think about it. Fucking thing was somewhere around here, here on this side, in the junk and the water –

It rose up in front of him, the hard, closed fist smashing into his cheek just above the jaw, weighted like a tree-trunk, sending him flying backwards, arms pinwheeling for balance. He didn't see the old concrete lip of a wash area, and it caught his heels and sent him crashing to the floor against the wall, the back of his head smacking into the concrete. He shook his head, looking around for the taser, spotting it as he heard the dragging footsteps of the rawhead in the darkness. _Fuck_. He scrabbled fast through the puddles of water that filled the hollows of the floor, a fragmentary glimpse of the thing's head passing the patch of lighter darkness of the window.

Dean felt the smooth plastic grip and his fingers closed tightly around it as he threw himself back against into the corner between the main foundation wall and a short bracing wall. He was saturated, but barely noticed the water, the rawhead accelerating toward him, splashing, snarling … his finger tightened on the trigger as the knowledge of what the water meant hit him.

The short, barbed prongs of the taser sailed out, hitting the rawhead in the chest, and the circuit board multiplied the voltage dutifully as the current passed into the creature, from the usual twelve hundred volts, to twenty four hundred volts, the nineteen-second pulses instantly contracting the monster's muscles as the current grounded through the highly conductive pool of water around its feet.

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one. _

The current passed efficiently through the pool and the water soaking his skin into him and every muscle locked, including those in the finger that held the trigger down.

"_We save lives, Dean," his father had said to him. "People who don't know what's out there, we kill the monsters that prey on them and we keep them safe."_

_He'd come in that time, beaten and bloodied and Dean had been frightened, really frightened, that his father might die, might stay down there on the bathroom floor and die from the deep injuries that were leaking blood everywhere. He didn't know what to do. His father's eyes were open, but they weren't seeing him, just staring at the ceiling. He'd grabbed the towels from the rail, and tried to press them against the open tears, watching in horror as blood had soaked through them, had soaked through onto his hands._

_C'mon, think, what would Daddy do, what did he say to do? He dropped the towels and ran for the other room, knocking the phone off the table in his haste to grab it, the handset slippery with the blood that covered his hands as he punched in the number, brows drawn together trying to remember it, images of his father's sightless stare filling his mind._

"_Well, the first thing you have to know is we have the coolest dad in the world. He's a superhero."_

"_A sacrifice is only honourable if it is made freely, life given freely to the cause. To sacrifice another, with no choice, that's just murder."_

_Wasn't I good enough? I didn't let you down. I did everything you asked me to, everything I was supposed to, I did my best – why'd you leave?_

* * *

_**Ottumwa County Hospital, Iowa. April 21, 2006**_

The smell of disinfectant. The beeping of machines. The dry, filtered, tasteless air in his mouth.

_Hospital._

Dean opened his eyes and looked at the blank white wall opposite. He felt unbelievably tired. And sore, in an all-over-nowhere-in-particular kind of way.

"Good, you're awake." The voice was male, deep, overlaid with a false jauntiness that seemed to be the province of doctors who had bad news. The worse the news, the more cheerfully it was delivered, he thought sourly.

He moved his head slowly, looking at the doorway and the man who stood there.

Heart attack. Fibrillation. Myocardial necrosis. Supraventricular tachycardia. Arterial damage. Ventricular arrhythmia. Permanent tissue damage. No treatment. No cure.

_Two weeks, maybe longer._

He was pretty sure he'd nodded and said the appropriate things at the appropriate times. The doctor had looked at him pityingly, the cheeriness gone from his voice and face, and had left.

It explained the tiredness, he thought vaguely. Heart not working right sure explained that.

Sammy was going to be hard to deal with, he knew, trying to pull in a deep breath. The air didn't seem to make it all the way down and he realised belatedly that was probably normal in his condition.

He'd just have to keep it upbeat, play it light. The one thing he wasn't going to be able to deal with was his brother's grief. Not here. Not now. Sam would have to wait until he was in the ground to do his hearts and flowers stuff.

Looking out of the window, he wondered if his father would come to the funeral. Depended on where he was, he guessed, what he was doing. So far, he hadn't answered any calls, or responded to any messages. He was alive, he felt that, somewhere deep inside. Just not … available.

Should he be feeling something more than the weary resignation he was feeling? Angry? Sad? Something? He couldn't raise the energy for emotion. He'd paid his money and he'd taken his choices and this is where the wheel of fortune had run out of spin. Dead at twenty-seven. The thought stopped him, for a moment.

There would be a lot of things he would miss. A lot of things he'd thought he was going to have to time to do. He wasn't sure that he wanted to think about those things. Like looking back at the times you could've done something different, but didn't, it seemed like an exercise in futility to think of things that were now going to be forever missed opportunities.

The memory of the basement, of the monster, of the water and the gun and the choice came back, slowly. Filtering through his thoughts. Everything had happened fast, he'd had no time to think, just the reactions, trained into him, into muscle and nerve and neuron. Fight. Kill the monster. But he'd known, looking up at it, that it was this or nothing. Letting the monster go just to save his own life hadn't been on the table.

And that was okay. Mostly, that was okay. That sonofabitch wasn't ever going to take another kid.

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one. _

He picked up the remote control and turned on the television set, a small portable one on a moving bed table, flicking through the channels, looking for something to give him an escape, something else to think about.

The door opened and he knew without having to look that Sam had come in. He stared at the flickering screen.

"Have you ever actually watched daytime TV? It's terrible."

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana, 2010**_

The house was sticky and warm, the windows open but the breeze that slopped inside was hot and cantankerous. Dean opened the back door, walking outside, the moist air little better out in the garden than it'd been in the house. Dim flashes of light lit up the undersides of a murky line of cloud gathering along the horizon, and under the soft whine of insects, he could hear the very distant mutter of thunder.

He'd woken desperately struggling to get free of a nightmare that had pumped a quart of adrenaline through him, images of his brother still flickering in his head, too fast to make out, but unmistakable anyway. The bedroom had been stifling, airless and cloying and he'd gone out and downstairs, not even stopping at the bathroom to wash the sweat from his hair and face, needing moving air, needing something that he couldn't get inside the little house.

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one. _

Sam'd made the sacrifice freely, had chosen to take the devil down but the cost was too high, he thought helplessly, staring into the darkness, too high to expect anyone to pay. Too high for him to ever be able to accept.

Their lives, their whole lives had been about sacrifice. Sacrificing a home, their family, friendships, companionship, dreams … they'd had to give all of that up, trading those things for the road, for danger, for death and pain and a destiny they'd had no choice in at all.

_Sacrifice forced on another is murder._

It had been forced on them, he thought, by Yellow Eyes, by his father, by responsibility and guilt and the things that they had done that couldn't ever be undone, couldn't be made right … couldn't be atoned for and forgiven and laid to rest.

The breeze dropped and he turned around, going back inside, walking through the tiger stripes of light and shadow that the blinds created where the streetlights came through. A small lamp was on in the living room, casting a circle of light over the half-empty bottle and the glass that stood next to it.

He sat down and stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, clean and white, framed photographs of Lisa and Ben, smiling down at him, frozen in moments of unexplained happiness in their lives.

"_I like who I am because of it," Ellie had said, the room filled with bright sunlight, hotter than hell, both of them dripping with sweat despite the fact that they weren't doing anything at all. "I like what I do."_

She'd also said that she'd chosen the hunter's life, wanting to live it, to make the small differences that she could. He reached out for the bottle and the glass, unscrewing the lid and pouring the amber liquid into the glass, setting it on the table. She was still out there, somewhere, hunting on her own. She'd wanted the life. Just not … him.

He picked up the glass and tossed back the contents, his fingers gripping the smooth surface tightly, the fire going down his throat not coming anywhere near to easing that pain. Sometimes it was easier to think about his brother.

_That's the job, kid. Even if you manage to scrape out of this one, there's just gonna be something else down the road. Folks like us ... there ain't no happy ending. We all got it coming._

Rufus was a pain in the ass when he was right. Ain't no happy endings. At least here, he would die in one piece, with people who cared about him. Wasn't that better than hunting alone and being alone and dying alone?

He couldn't hunt alone anymore. He would turn into something that he liked even less than what he was now. He didn't know how she did it, but she had friends, people who reminded her of what it was all about. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe that _made_ the difference.

_I'm what you've got to look forward to if you survive. But you won't._

But he had. Somehow. Without meaning or wanting to, ready to die at every turn, and he was still alive. His family was gone, most of his friends were dead, the rest he'd left behind to fulfil a promise that his brother had refused to make for him.

* * *

Sam had balanced himself on the topmost rung of the stepladder, one long leg extended out like a goddamned ballerina as he tilted the other way to get the star jammed on the top of the tree. He'd been lying on the sofa, eyes frantically looking for a camera when his father had come in and stopped, mouth open, staring at his youngest boy.

"What the hell –"

Sam's head had snapped around and he'd begun to fall, into the tree, of course, and Dad had shot across the room, grabbing his ankle and they'd both hit the ground on the other side of the stepladder, and he hadn't been able to stop laughing for almost ten minutes. Jim had come in, bewildered at the sight of the three of them, him on sofa, laughing so hard tears had been rolling down his face, Dad and Sam tangled up together on the floor arguing about who'd been at fault, the tree behind them, draped and glittering with the star sitting only slightly crookedly at the top.

"You don't think you're a little long in the tooth for wrestling, John?" Jim had said when the oldest and youngest Winchesters had paused for breath, and that'd made him laugh harder, practically hysterical by that point.

There'd been an edge to that laughter, although at the time it had felt good to get out. They hadn't been like for a while, unconsciously family, not at each other's throats, Dad twisted up with worry, Sam lashing out at everyone. Maybe it'd been being at Jim's, maybe it'd had been just being together, in one place, for a while. The injuries he'd had had been bad, he hadn't been able to do more than hobble around on painkillers for nearly six weeks and the little rental Jim'd found had given them the time to be a family in a way that they hadn't been for a long time. Dad had cooked, and even Sammy had tried his hand at it, scowling over recipe books in an effort to speed his healing with what his little brother had called healthy food. It'd filled the house with homey smells, reminding him constantly of much earlier years.

They'd spent a lot of afternoons and evenings playing cards, talking, listening, watching old movies, even reading … and mostly together. At the end of January, he'd been able to walk and he'd started trying to get back into some sort of shape. Sam had thrown him that goddamned birthday party, a bunch of the local kids from school coming around and Jim and his father sitting in the corner, discreetly keeping an eye on everyone. His brother had done the cake, the candles, the singing – everything. He'd wanted to crawl under the table and had seen his father laughing silently in the corner, no doubt at his agonised expressions but somehow it'd made the day better, not worse.

The highlight had been Jim catching him with Kathy Dennison, in his bedroom, his tongue in her mouth, her hand down his jeans, and his under her shirt, the door opening abruptly and a loud 'ahem' coming from the hall. Jim had looked away as they'd retrieved their various body parts and straightened their clothing and then had pointed out that his father was looking for him. Kind of killed the moment, right there and then.

Even ripped to shreds, he'd been a fast healer and before the snow had really given up, he'd gone out with Dad and Sam on a few salt'n'burns, the three of them working in harmony on every one, both of them keeping the peace with the obvious intention of making sure he wasn't stressed out. He'd thought about dragging his 'convalescence' on for longer, just to have them talking and laughing together, Sam polite and deferential, Dad calm and inviting his sons' opinions, both of them watching him, making sure he was okay.

* * *

He smiled a little at the memory. God, he'd wanted that to go on.

"_Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh? I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?" he'd said, the words driven out of him in desperation._

_Sam had looked at him, brow creasing up in confusion. "'Cause Dad was in trouble. 'Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom."_

"_Yes, that, but it's more than that, man. You and me and Dad—I mean, I want us … I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again."_

_And Sammy had smiled, a sorrowful smile, an understanding smile. "Dean, we are a family. I'd do anything for you. But things will never be the way they were before."_

"_Could be," he'd tried, already knowing that it was going to be rejected._

"_I don't want them to be. I'm not gonna live this life forever," Sam had said firmly, not trying to hurt, hurting anyway. "Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way."_

He'd wanted that time back, that happy time and the lesser periods that had interspersed the years before it, the three of them together, protecting each other, not close, not really if he looked at it objectively and not through the sepia-coloured contentment of his memories, but caring about each other.

Sam's words had killed that dream. Never was a final word. An uncompromising word.

They'd hung on, together, especially after Dad had – his chest caught at that, again – done what he'd done and left them alone. Left him alone. He'd watched Sam trying to find a way to forgive the man, watched him wrestling with ghosts that wouldn't be laid. He wrestled with his own. All the things he'd never said. Never asked. Had waited for, waited to be told, waited to hear.

He couldn't shut out his little brother's words. Couldn't pretend that Sam hadn't said them, his voice clear and his meaning succinct. He'd been right, in one way. It'd never quite been over. Until now. Now, he guessed it was over. There was no one left.

He poured another couple of shots into his glass and stared at the bottle absently.

By summer, he'd been pretty much healed up and they'd packed up the house in Blue Earth and gone to stay with Bobby for a while, Dad off hunting with Bill and when he'd come back … when he'd come back he'd been … different. The blow-up with Bobby had ended any further visits to Sioux Falls. They'd found out that Bill had died, but John had never mentioned Ellen or Jo. And his father hadn't been the same after that. Something had gone out of him in a way that he couldn't describe. And Sam … Sam had withdrawn bit by bit.

And the next job had been the elemental. Saving a little girl.

Saving her life, that job had been an uncomfortable juxtaposition of the reasons he'd wanted to hunt. And the way that it wasn't enough. They'd saved her but hadn't gotten there in time to save her parents. And she'd gone down the road she had because of that. He didn't know how to feel about that, really. If they hadn't been hunters, hadn't been there, she'd be dead. But because they had been there, she was a hunter now.

_The bedroom had been bright with pale winter light, the curtains drawn back. The clock beside the bed told him it was almost ten. The memories of the last twelve hours were overflowing him, the physical memories of them together, the emotional memories of going through his past, of telling her, of hearing what she'd said, of asking for help and feeling something come into him, something that had illuminated him, had soothed him; they were all mixed together right now, overlaid with a hope that he hadn't felt in years._

_He looked down at the woman lying against his side. As if she'd felt his gaze, she opened her eyes, jade-green, flecked with gold, vivid in the bright light, looking up at him, her lips curving into a small smile._

_The smile ignited him and he bent his head to kiss her, a frisson of amazement threading through him that he could be here and do this. He was sated, and yet still hungry, an emotional hunger as much as a physical one. It was scaring him, that need. He'd kept his needs hidden deeply away for a long time._

"_What is it?" She looked into his eyes and all he could see was concern, for him, and that scared him more. He didn't deserve that depth of concern._

"_Nothing," he said, automatically then shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face as he saw her disbelief. "I mean, this –" He waved his hand around at the room vaguely. "This just isn't – I'm not – I don't …" he trailed away as the words refused to come._

_She shifted onto her elbow, a hand light on his chest. "Not what you want?"_

_He remembered the shock that had filled him. _

"_No, god, that's not – I want this, you, us," he'd stumbled over the words, his arm tightening around her involuntarily. He couldn't make himself ask what he wanted to know._

"_Then what?"_

_He dragged in a deep breath. Too many things. He wasn't used to having anything, anymore. It made him too aware of what he could lose. What he would lose, he thought._

"_The way it's been …," he said softly, looking down at her hand. "Sam … and Ellen and Jo … fucking Lucifer …"_

"_No one wins all the time," she said._

_He shook his head. "I can't remember the last time we won."_

"_Bobby told me you took out War and Famine," she reminded him, her voice neutral. "That you convinced a demon hybrid to not join up with Lucifer. Saved a few other people along the way. Weren't those wins, Dean?"_

_He exhaled slowly. "It's not enough."_

"_It'll have to be enough, because that's all there is. Fighting one fight at a time. Doing what you can." She lifted her hand, touching his cheek. "Saving people, one at a time, if that's how it plays out. It's what we're here for, isn't it?"_

"_Is it?"_

* * *

There's always gonna be something to hunt.

But not for him, he thought, getting up and walking to the window, pulling back the curtain a little to watch the lightning sheet along the cloudbase. The thunder was louder now, more of a grumbling in the background. Not for him. He was going to stay here and be normal … go to the job, collect his pay packet, pay his bills, eat home-cooked food at a dining table with Lisa and Ben, go to ballgames and the movies … this was his life.

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one. _

Not any more. Not for this one. He'd paid enough. He'd done enough. He would see who he was when the hunter had gone and the memories had gone and all that was left was – had to be – just him.

The sudden decision surprised him. He was tired. Tired of fighting … everything. He'd fought monsters and demons and ghosts and people, fought Heaven and fought Hell, fought his brother and himself, for years now, and he was so goddamned tired of it.

He was never going have what he wanted. That was gone, done, finished. He could keep pretending to himself – keep killing himself with hope, with the insistence that there must something, something he hadn't found, tried, heard of – or he could accept the reality. The world was safe, or at least as safe as it had ever been. His family was gone. He would never get them back. Ellie had gone. And Sam was gone.

The glass slid from his fingers unnoticed, spilling amber liquid over the cream carpet. He dropped to his knees, not knowing his strength was going to run out the way it did, not feeling the moment it happened.

This was what giving up really felt like, some distant and uninvolved part of his mind told him. Not the sentimental and sweetly sorrowful farewell tour and thinking that you're doing it for the good of the world, sacrificing yourself for all mankind _(the good of the many outweighs the good of the one)_. But a raw and brutal shutdown knowing that you are going to kill yourself, your real self, the man you hardly even got to know, never had the time to figure out. This was what happened when you really let go.

And this was the easy part, the part that didn't involve burning out, cutting out and cauterising all the memories, the feelings that came with the memories, all the parts of himself that had kept him going, all the things he'd wanted, all the things he'd dreamed of, all the things that had made him who he was.

_Had been._

Dean knelt on the floor, not hearing the thunder rattling the windows and doors, not seeing the cracking bolts of lightning filling the house with white light, not smelling the stink of the whiskey spilled next to him, rising on the hot air, not hearing the roar of the rain as it pelted down over the house and the street and the town, he was locked inside, the battle raging there as fierce and violent as the storm surrounding him.

Peace … or freedom? Hadn't that always been the question?


	12. Chapter 12 Bleed

**Chapter 12 Bleed**

* * *

"_You know, I put, I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you." _He wanted to hear those words. Wanted to see that look in his father's eyes. Wanted it so badly to be true. But he couldn't trust it, couldn't let it go too deep.

* * *

"_You have to watch him, and take care of him. You have to save him. And if you can't, if – if he – if you can't, you have to kill him, Dean. I know. I know but you must. Because it won't just be who he becomes … it's what he'll do. You'll know, you'll understand. You have to keep it from him, Dean, like I did. Please. Please, son." _He didn't want to hear that. Not that. Anything but that. Not Sammy. He would save him. He would die saving him but he couldn't kill him, not under orders, not for his father, not if the fucking world depended on it. Not if his brother turned into Satan himself could he point a gun at him and pull the trigger. No. _NO!_

* * *

"_Knowing how your daddy died for you, how he sold his soul. I mean, that's gotta hurt. It's all you ever think about. You wake up and your first thought is, "I can't do this anymore." You're all lit up with pain. I mean, you loved him so much. And it's all your fault." _He still woke up with that dread, that feeling that he wasn't strong enough for what he had to carry. It was all true and he'd failed. His father had sacrificed himself, had given up his soul for him and he'd broken. Made it all worthless. The pain. The suffering. The sacrifice. All his fault.

* * *

"_No, you can't. And you know what? You're the only one who thinks you should have to. You don't have to handle this on your own, Dean, no one can." _But he did because he couldn't tell Sam what Dad had said. And he couldn't face it himself. And he didn't know whether he loved his father or hated him for putting that load onto him and expecting him to carry it. His one job. Protect your brother. All his life. Protect Sam.

* * *

"_Sam, you and Dad ... you're the most important people in my life. And now ... I never should have come back, Sam. It wasn't natural. And now look what's come of it. I was dead. And I should have stayed dead. You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well, that's it. So tell me. What could you possibly say to make that all right?" _Nothing. Nothing would ever make it alright. Or better. Or make it possible to live with. Sam had said nothing and that'd been right. There had been nothing to say. He'd failed. Failed. Failure.

* * *

"_There's just chaos, and violence, and random unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere and rips you to shreds." _No reason. No rhyme. No angels. But he'd been wrong about that because there had been angels. There still were angels. And they were as evil as demons and as careless as humans and as rapacious as monsters. What did that say about the way the world was? Was he supposed to kill all of them?

* * *

"_It's so damn hard to do this, what we do. All alone, you know? There's so much evil out there in the world, Dean, I feel like I could drown in it." _And he'd agreed with his brother. They were all alone in a world full of evil. No backup. No family. He'd been drowning for a long time. Drowning and suffocating in the evil that surrounded them, that had surrounded his brother and filled him up. Drowning and suffocating in the evil he had done. In the winking gleam of the razor's edge and the screams of the souls under it. Sam had despaired when all that had been outside of them. He knew Hell, knew how it turned the sins into blades, to cut through the soul's flesh and eat through it like acid. Sam was down with the archangels and even if he could find a way, a way to pull him out, he had to face the fact that Sam might not be Sam – ever again. Because it changed something, something down deep and it made things that hadn't been possible once, possible. And it left stains, stains that you couldn't get rid of, couldn't wash away no matter how many people you saved, no matter how much you sacrificed, no matter how much you wanted to let go.

* * *

"_I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life . . . this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it." _Tired of fighting. Tired of living. Tired of never getting any closer to the end. Tired of seeing himself in the mirror and seeing what he'd done, seeing it in his eyes. Tired of being afraid and alone and knowing that he was gonna die that way. Tired of wanting what he could never have.

* * *

"_Yeah, well, Dad's an ass. He never should have said anything, I mean, you don't do that, you don't, you don't lay that kind of crap on your kids." _It'd been the first time he really doubted his father. Not the last, but the first. Doubted that he knew what was best. Doubted that he loved his sons. Doubted that he loved him. The doubt slid inside, ever deeper, working its way into him like a splinter of glass until he couldn't breathe without pain, couldn't close his eyes without nightmares, couldn't see anything but darkness surrounding him on every side. Why him? His father's words had screamed inside of him, every quiet moment shattered, every moment's peace torn to pieces with them.

* * *

_See, people talk about hell, but it's just a word. It doesn't even come close to describing the real thing. If you could see your poor daddy? Hear the sounds he makes 'cause he can't even scream? _That was true too. He knew what it looked like. He knew what it felt like to scream and scream, no sound emerging. He knew what it was like to wish for oblivion every second of every day. They should've had a family rate. The demons of Hell had told him everything they'd done to his father, and he had no doubt that Lucifer would tell Sam everything that had been done to them both. And everything he'd done. Torture.

* * *

_"I hope you find what you want, Dean." _He wanted her. He still wanted her. He wanted what she'd promised him with her words and her touch and her deep stillness. Healing. Redemption. A feeling of being not broken. He wanted to be the man he saw in her eyes when she looked at him. He wanted to feel that every day and know that the loneliness was gone and he had someone he could trust, could put his back against. He wanted Sam, alive and sane and safe. He wanted a life that he could feel. A life that meant something. And he knew he wouldn't get any of those things.

* * *

_He's your brother, you love the guy. This has got to hurt like hell for you. But here's the thing. Your dad? If it really came right down to it, he would have had the stones to do the right thing here. But you're telling me you're not the man he is? _He'd never been the man his father had been. Gordon had been right. And he'd been wrong. But it didn't matter because he'd failed Sam as he'd failed his father. As he was failing the family he was with right now. Failed them completely. He couldn't think of any of it without that knowledge grinding into his bones and shredding his guts and lighting up his mind until he couldn't hide from it any longer. He'd failed everyone.

* * *

"_Oh, you can smirk and joke and lie to your brother, lie to yourself, but not to me! I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win, and you know it. But you just keep fighting. Just... keep going through the motions. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside, you're already...dead." _Dead. Broken. Defeated. _It's only there because you thought you deserved it. You created it. You can let it fill again_. No. That was gone now too. That promise. Had she lied to him? Or had she played his confession back to herself and changed her mind? Did it matter? Broken was broken. Dead was dead. What difference did it make, after all, if he stayed here in this little house and died a bit more each day? He was already dead. The aching poison of self-hatred had gone but the facts remained. Everything he'd done and everything he'd failed to do. All the choices. All the decisions. All the mistakes. He wasn't hungry – not for life, not for anything now. Dead. Broken. Defeated.

* * *

_"It was the only choice for you. Right or wrong, that's irrelevant. You did what is in you to do, because that's who you are." _Who he'd been. Maybe. Sacrificing himself so that his brother would live only to find that he'd sacrificed the world with that decision and Sam couldn't be saved anyway, not by him. How much more could he carry? How much more could he take? Was he still that man?

* * *

"_That's the thing. It's not on me to let you do anything. You're a grown - well, overgrown - man. If this is what you want, I'll back your play."_ He thought he'd done the right thing. He knew now that he hadn't. The price was too high for his brother, too high for him. They'd saved the world and it had cost everything. He was alive. Alone in a house with two other people. Sam was locked away for an eternity. He didn't know how to live with that. He couldn't let go. He couldn't just … give up.

* * *

_"What do I do if I lose everyone, Ellie? What do I do then?"_

_"You start again. And then, again, if need be."_

_"Jesus, don't sugar coat it for me, will you."_

* * *

"Dean?" Lisa's voice was hesitant, like her touch on his shoulder. He shuddered, dragging in a deep, hoarse breath and looked up at her, feeling the grit and soreness of his eyes, the stabbing pain in his neck, the numbness of his feet and legs. Light peeked around the edges of the curtains, stray shafts touching the empty glass, the dark stain on the carpet, the bloody crescents on his palms where his nails had dug deeply.

"Are you okay?" She crouched in front of him, her face more than concerned now, an edge of fear riming her voice.

He looked down and shook his head. "No."

"What's wrong?"

The noise in his throat was indistinct, something between a laugh and a scream and a sob, he thought, lifting his hand, rubbing it hard over his eyes and face. He got one knee under him and got up, feeling the blood return to his legs in pins and needles, his feet throbbing slightly in time with his pulse.

Looking at his watch, he realised that it wasn't all that bad. It'd felt like a thousand years, in his head. He could still make it in to work. The thought was so disconnected to what he was feeling that he didn't know how to move to the next one.

"Dean?"

"I can't," he managed to get out, not sure if she understood that. "I can't."

He saw the stairs and started up them, putting one foot in front of the other, getting toward the top. In the bathroom, he turned on the taps of the shower, stepping under the spray before the water had warmed, shivering in the blast of cold water pouring over him, looking down and realising he hadn't taken off his clothes. He didn't care. He leaned against the tiled wall, feeling the water slowly warm up and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Dean!"

He looked up, wiping a hand over the goggles on his face, as Stu raced toward him, reached out and slammed his over the power switch for the bandsaw.

"What?" He looked down at the two by four he was holding. His hand was still on it, a couple of inches from the now-stopped blade.

"What the fuck is going on with you, man?" The foreman stared down at blade.

"Nothing, I … uh …" He couldn't think of anything to say, anything that would make sense, anyway. "Might be getting that 'flu that's going around."

Stu looked up at his face, nodding abruptly. "Yeah, well I don't need a compo case, so get your butt home and stay there until you know what you're doing."

Dean nodded, letting go of the timber and walking away. Lying again. He was always lying now. To Lisa. To Stu. To Sid. To Ben. Couldn't help it. No one would understand the truth. Even he had trouble understanding it sometimes.

He pulled off the goggles and gloves and tossed them into his toolbox, picking it up and making his way past the other guys, eyes half-closed against the flying sawdust. The truck was parked around the corner. Just around the corner.

* * *

He pulled up in front of the house and locked the truck, walking to the mailbox and checking it, pulling out a handful of bills. Bills. They were addressed to him. Dean Winchester. Typed. In the little windows of the envelopes. Why were bills always in one of those envelopes with the little windows?

Inside, the house was quiet and empty. He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. Wandering into the kitchen, he pulled a beer from the fridge automatically and glanced at the wall planner Lisa had pinned to the big corkboard. She had two classes today. Ben had practice this afternoon. No one would be home for hours.

He felt spaced-out, as if his mind and body weren't actually connected, just moving along together in the same direction but not really with the same destination. It wasn't a bad feeling. Just a weird one.

"_You go find Lisa. You pray to god she's dumb enough to take you in, and you – you have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me."_

Sam's voice was loud in his head. As loud as he'd been the first time. He'd promised.

The living room still smelled faintly of the spilled whiskey, the sour scent of vomit. He turned away from it and walked up the stairs, going into the bedroom. He'd promised because he'd never been able to deny his brother what he wanted. Never been able to stomach the look of disappointment on Sam's face when he'd said no directly. He hadn't realised, exactly, what the promise would demand of him. Hadn't realised that he was going to lose everything, including his hope, including himself. He'd thought, with his brother beside him in the car, that he'd already broken a few promises – what the hell was one more?

But sitting in Bobby's living room, listening to the apologies of the angel and feeling the grief pushing at him harder and harder, he'd realised that he wasn't going to break this promise. There was nothing left for him but the promise.

* * *

_**1992. New Jersey.**_

"Sam? Sam!" Dean looked around the alley, feeling his heart start to accelerate a little. It'd been raining all week and Sam had been itching to get outside so they'd come down and been playing in the alley, kick the can and hit the can and anything they could think of, while the clouds tore across the watery blue sky in between showers.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice sounded muffled, but his pulse settled as he ran in its direction, sneakers already soaked from the puddles shining along the black asphalt.

"Where are you?" He slowed as he got toward the end of the alley, peering behind the dumpster.

"Here," Sam said, and Dean saw the damp mop of honey-blonde hair emerge from behind a small wall. He hurried to his brother and looked down at the old fashioned coal chute that led into the building next door, the steel doors coated in rust and the padlock broken.

"What?"

"Let's go inside." Sam was unhooking the padlock, pulling it free. He tugged at the heavy metal doors. "Help me."

Dean sighed and lifted the door, peering down into the darkness. "Looks boring."

"We could play Indiana Jones," Sam said, wriggling over the edge of the chute and looking up at his brother coaxingly. "Come on, please?"

Dad wouldn't be back until dark, Dean considered. The chute and the basement it led into would probably be dark and filled with useless junk, but it might use up enough of his little brother's energy to keep him happy with TV until bedtime. He shouldn't have taken Sammy to see the movies, he thought now. The town's only cinema had been showing all three, discount rate, and they'd spent the day watching the man with the hat as he travelled the world, beat the bad guys, rescued pretty much everyone and took the prize. Fortune and glory. He should've known it would bite him on the ass. Sam'd been obsessed ever since.

"There's no treasure to find down there, Sam," he tried again to deflect his little brother.

"You don't know that," Sam said, glancing into the blackness below his legs. "Come on, Dean, please, please!"

Dean sniffed. "Alright, but when I say we're done, that's it. No complaining and we go right away, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed instantly, wriggling further and dropping down the chute. Dean heard him gasp when he hit the floor.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, it was shorter than I thought," Sam said, his voice echoing slightly. "Come on."

Clambering onto the edge of the chute, he let himself slide down, his feet hitting the hard floor and catapulting him forward onto his hands and knees. He got up, pulling out his flashlight and shining the beam around the walls.

Just what he'd thought, a dark, practically empty room.

"Look at this," Sam said, and he swung the flashlight around to see his brother crouching on the floor on the other side of the room. He walked over slowly, the beam playing over the hard-packed dirt floor until it reached the grating that Sam was looking at.

"Where do you think it goes?"

"Sewers, I guess," Dean said, shrugging slightly.

"It might lead to a whole room full of treasure," Sam murmured, his fingers curling around the bars.

"Yeah, I doubt it."

"C'mon, shine your light down here," Sam wheedled.

The flashlight beam lit up the inside of the shaft, showing the old brick sides, the rusted iron ladder leading down. At the bottom, they could see a brick tunnel, gleaming with moisture and moss.

"Doesn't smell bad," Sam said, leaning forward and sniffing the rising air.

"We're not going down there," Dean said firmly. "You can play up here."

"There's nothing up here," Sam argued, gesturing wildly behind him at the room. "That's a secret tunnel."

"No, just a sewer pipe," Dean grated, trying to squash his brother's attempts to romanticise it. "Just a wet, grody sewer pipe."

"It could be a secret tunnel," Sam said slowly, reconsidering how to get Dean to play this game with him. "It could be a secret tunnel filled with monsters, which have to be killed before we can find the treasure."

Dean's deep exhale was audible and Sam ducked his head, hiding a slight smile.

"Please, Dean. There's nothing to do up in the room, and we don't have to take all that long, just look, please?"

Sam lifted his head and stared beseechingly at his brother and Dean looked down at him, knowing that his little brother was fully aware of the effect that look had on him. There wasn't much he could do for his brother, in the way of treats or fun things. Most of the time, if Dad wasn't around, they were on lockdown in their room. He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock.

"We're outta here at twelve, okay?" he said, dropping to his knees, his fingers curling around the grating. "No arguments. We gotta get lunch."

"Okay, twelve," Sam said, nodding his head fast. That was two hours. They could go miles in two hours. He added his strength to his brother's and they managed to lift the heavy iron grating clear of the lip, pulling it aside enough for them to slip through and down the ladder.

The pipes were big, and they didn't have to crawl, could walk along with their heads bent slightly. Dean led, the flashlight showing the brickwork, the trickle of water that ran down the middle, the moss and fungi growing upward from it. It _was_ like hunting for monsters, he thought, trying to move silently, to anticipate where a monster might come from, how it would look coming out of the darkness ahead of them.

He was concentrating so hard on the thoughts of hunting that he didn't see the drop in the pipe, his feet going out from under him, the light shooting up to the ceiling as he fell forwards and landed on his knees in a foot of slimy water.

"Sam, watch out!" he said loudly as he twisted around to look back at his brother. Sam stopped at the edge and stepped down carefully, his nose wrinkling at the pungent smell that rose from the pool.

_Perfect_, Dean thought, getting to his feet. The pipe bore was bigger here, much bigger, but the water was deeper. His jeans and sneakers were soaked through, and the back half of his jacket, and it smelled bad.

"Trap," Sam said knowingly, looking at the drop. Dean shook his head. He didn't have the patience to play this game.

He raised the flashlight and heard Sam's delighted gasp beside him. Ahead of them, not more than a few yards away, there was a big junction of the pipes, the size of a small room. Sam splashed through the water toward it and Dean followed him, trying to keep flashlight steady as his feet slid on the slick bricks.

"Wow," Sam whispered, looking around the hexagonal chamber, at the five pipes that led off it. "This is amazing."

"Awesome," Dean said sourly, staring around. It was double the height of the pipes, and he flashed the light over the ceiling, seeing the walkways around the sides, leading to pipes set higher up. Despite the boggy smell of the water lapping around their ankles, he thought that it wasn't a sewer system, or at least it hadn't been used as one for a long time. Maybe storm water. Sam was climbing up a ladder leading to a walkway, and he hurried after him.

The rumble was so faint he didn't notice it at first. It sounded like a train in a distant subway. Then it got louder. Looking around, Dean tried to track which of the pipes it was coming from, the sound in the junction and through the pipes distorted, odd echoes coming from several different pipes. He ran for the ladder as it became a deafening roar.

"Sam, stay where you are!"

"What is it?" Sam pressed back against the brick wall, his eyes round as he watched Dean climbing fast up the ladder toward him.

The first load of water came through the pipe at the walkway level, to the left of the ladder they'd just climbed, a solid spout erupting from the wall and falling into the junction. Dean stared down as the lower pipes took the water out in a spuming torrent. They'd never get back through those pipes in that, he thought nervously. The second load came from the pipe on the other side of the walkway, boiling with foam and debris, shooting out into the junction and adding to the rapidly filling room.

Dean reached Sam, curling his arm around his brother as he watched the water swirling and twisting beneath them, rising higher despite the wide-bore pipes channelling the storm fall away.

_Dammit_, he thought, his heart sledging against the walls of his chest. Must've started raining again. Dad would be so pissed at him, exploring a storm water system in the rain, it was so damned stupid. He looked frantically around the walls. Several of the higher pipes were dry, not even a trickle coming down them. Maybe they could get up one of them, find an exit?

"C'mon, Sam," he said, seeing a narrow pipe at the end of the walkway. They could get into it, he was sure of it. They inched along the narrow catwalk, their feet clanging on the metal and sending flakes of rust into the whirlpool below them. Dean bent, making a step for his brother with his hands, and Sam put his foot in, fingers gripping the wall as Dean lifted him up.

"How is it?"

"Dry," Sam said, looking down. He reached out to the curving sides and heaved himself over the edge, crawling in. Dean looked at the thin metal balustrade and climbed onto it, jumping and catching the edge of the pipe, flinging himself in and wriggling forward until he could get his knees under him.

He pulled out the flashlight again and turned it on, shining it down the tunnel past Sam. It was dry, higher than the drainage tunnels, and would lead somewhere, he thought.

Sam crawled ahead of him and he followed slowly, scraping his knuckles on the rough brick as he held the light up as much as possible. He was looking down at the pipe floor ahead of him when Sam suddenly disappeared in front of him, his brother's startled cry echoing off the hard bricks.

"Sam!" Dean crawled fast and saw the edge a second before he put his hand over it. The pipe ended abruptly in the wall of another, much older junction, smaller than the one they'd come from, half-full of water, the walls covered with cracked and broken tiles.

"Sam!" He looked down, swinging the flashlight around, seeing his brother lying half-submerged against the side. Without hesitation he pulled his legs up and swivelled, dropping feet first into the room, and the freezing water.

It was up to his waist and he pushed against the flow furiously, grabbing Sam and lifting him up, seeing the long graze over his brother's forehead, blood flowing slowly from it. Getting his arm around Sam's chest, he bent his head close to his brother's mouth and felt a slow exhale against his cheek.

This junction was triangular, three pipes coming into it. In the centre, a low brick plinth had been built, possibly to direct the flow of the water around the room. It was slightly domed on the top and he waded back to it, carrying Sam awkwardly, the flashlight beam bobbing uselessly half under the water. Lifting his brother onto the top, he leaned against the side, panting with the effort and looking wearily around.

It didn't seem like this was a part of the system they'd been in, the pipes were older, smaller and not nearly as much water was coming through them. The light flickered and he lifted his hand out of the water, shaking the flashlight slightly, rewarded with a stronger beam.

He jumped slightly at the feel of movement against his side and looked down fast, staring at the soaked fur and bright black eyes that stared back at him, the tiny claws clinging to his jacket. Slamming the end of the flashlight down, Dean swept the rat from his clothing and looked around, suddenly seeing more of them, swimming in the water, coming from the pipes, from the cracks in the walls, crawling along the old iron pipes that criss-crossed the ceiling.

Scrambling up onto the plinth beside Sam, he saw another rat appear over the edge on the other side of his brother, whiskers twitching forward as it scuttled fast toward his brother's head. He rolled onto his knees, knocking it back off the edge, feeling the claws scratch at his hands as it disappeared.

The flashlight flickered again, and Dean thumped it against his hand, twisting the top tighter. He needed the light. Needed it to see the water. Needed it to see the rats. He could hear them now, squeaking over the rush and bubble of the water as it swirled past their little island and rumbled into the pipes. He thought he could hear the chittering of their claws over the bricks, scratching on the tiles. Thought he could hear the slithering hiss of their furless tails as they dragged them over the rough surface.

_C'mon_, he told himself firmly, looking around in the dim light. _Just your imagination_. He couldn't see any on top of the plinth, here with him and Sam. The light dimmed further and he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head around and swung out his hand, biting back a scream as the rat grabbed onto his skin and ran up his fingers and over his wrist.

"Get OFF!" he yelled, twisting around and pounding his arm against the edge of the brick dome, the rat dropping off into the water.

"What?" Sam said behind him and he turned around, his eyes widening as he watched two rats running up his brother's stomach, Sam's face scrunched up as he tried to remember where they were.

"OFF!" Dean shouted, swinging the flashlight and hitting one of the rats, grabbing the other around the body and flinging it across the room. "Get away!"

"Dean?"

"Sam, sit up," Dean said, wiping his hand on his jeans and pulling his brother into a sitting position.

"My head hurts," Sam said in a small voice. Dean looked at his face, mouth twisting as he saw his brother's eyes, the pupils two different sizes, one very large. Concussion, he thought, remembering what his father had told him about it. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do about that. Keep Sam still. Don't let him sleep. Check his ears and eyes and nose for bleeding … he couldn't remember anything else.

"Stay still," he murmured to Sam, looking at his eyes and nose, then turning his head gently from side to side. "You feel dizzy?"

"Yeah," Sam said, closing his eyes as he nodded. "Ugh!"

Dean looked down at the rats that were coming up over the lip over the plinth, Sam snatching his hand away from them. He leaned over and swiped them from the edge with the edge of his hand, giving the flashlight to Sam to hold.

"Dean! This side," Sam swung the light away and behind him and he spun around, kicking at them wildly as they seemed to swarm up the rough brick. One clung on to the laces and he shook it furiously, overbalancing and falling off the top of the pier into the water. At once a dozen rats were on him, he could feel them in his hair, and on his shoulders, and he dove deep, scraping the side of his face against the brick wall and banging his cheekbone in his desperation to get them off him, to drown them.

"DEAN!" Sam's wail filled the small room as he came to the surface, and he reached up, kicking hard and pulling himself up, seeing his brother wiping ineffectually at the increasing numbers of vermin with the barrel of the flashlight as they ran over his legs and up his chest.

He felt an expanding roar of rage filling him at the sight of the creatures, biting now through his little brother's soft skin, drawing blood and attracting more. The roar came out, shocking Sam into silence and filling the room, echoing up the pipes leading out from it and suffusing him with a strength he didn't know he had.

"GET OFF! GET OFF!" He pulled them off and smashed them against the bricks, squeezing the bodies hard, feeling the tiny bones breaking in his fists, blood forced from the organs out through the mouths. He couldn't hear Sam's whimpering, his blood pounding in his ears, his attention utterly focussed on getting them off, killing them, throwing the mangled bodies aside. "Get outta here, you fuckers! Get AWAY from him!"

"DEAN!"

"Daddy!" Sam cried out and Dean belatedly registered his father's voice, thundering down the tunnel to his left. He looked up in confusion.

"WE'RE COMING, SAMMY!"

Dean looked down at his hands, covered in fur and blood, bites along his hands and forearms. Sam's head wound was still oozing blood and he could feel a small trickle from the scrape down the side of his own face. The relief he felt at his father's presence was tempered by the sure knowledge that he would be in a lot of trouble for bringing them down here, putting Sam into danger.

In the tunnel opposite, a powerful light bobbed and dipped and he could hear the splashing of footsteps through the water, then his father burst out of the pipe's end, barely visible behind the bright flashlight, wading through the water and picking Sam up from the top of the plinth, hugging him tightly.

"You alright?" Dad asked, and Dean nodded, slipping from the top of the short, brick pier and into the water.

A second flashlight beam played around the room and he felt the wiry strength of Jim's hand close around his own, leading him to the pipe and pushing him in ahead of the priest.

He could hear Sam's soft weeping, echoing in the pipe, and his father's gentle murmurs as they crabbed along, Jim's hand resting on his shoulder, the flashlight beam lighting up the way.

The pipe ended in a wet shaft, the manhole cover at the top partially pushed off, water running down the sides from the street above. Jim went up the vertical ladder first, pushing the cover clear and climbing out. John nodded to Dean and he scurried up the rungs, Jim's hands catching him under the arms as he got to the top, and lifting him all the way out. They both turned to take Sam as John climbed up with the boy, lifting him clear. The street was dark, the storm clouds filling the sky and rain sheeting down on the four of them as Jim and his father pushed the cover back over the shaft.

Ducking his head against the combination of the rain and any wish to see the expressions of the two men, Dean hunched his shoulders and walked between them back to the hotel, water dripping from his hair and running down his face, down the back of his neck and into his already soaked clothing.

"How'd you find us?" he asked Jim unwillingly as they squelched up the stairs, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"Saw the coal chute in the alley," his father answered shortly.

He nodded unhappily and waited as Jim unlocked the room door and gestured for him to go in.

"Clothes off, in the shower," Dad said brusquely, setting Sam down in the chair and tilting his head back to look at his eyes and the rapidly swelling bruise that was coming up under the cut. Dean hurried into the small bathroom and pulled off his wet clothes, wincing at the bruises and cuts he hadn't known he had as he tugged at the water-heavy, recalcitrant fabric. It exuded a strong odour of swamp and he dropped it in the bottom of the shower, shivering as he turned on the taps and waited for the water to heat up.

The hot water took away a lot of the aches, and some of the misery that was building inside. He scrubbed at the narrow bites that patterned his arms with the soap, still feeling the soft bodies in the sense memory of his palms and fingers, shuddering deeply with each remembered squirm against his skin.

When he was clean and warm, he turned off the taps and stepped out. He picked up his clothes and wrung them out as much as he could, throwing them over the shower rail, then grabbed a towel, drying himself hard. He'd led them into a place that could have been a lot more dangerous than it had been, he thought to himself bitterly. Had led them into a situation where Sam could've died. By the time he was dry, his skin was smarting from the rub down as well as stinging from the bites and he walked out of the bathroom with his head down, going to his duffle beside his bed, pulling out clean clothes automatically.

Neither Jim nor his father said anything to him, John carrying Sam into the bathroom and running the shower again, undressing Sam and holding him under the hot water.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his socks. His sneakers were soaked, he couldn't put them back on, but he felt cold, inside, and he pulled on the socks, just to try and keep some of the warmth from the shower.

"Let's have a look at those bites, Dean," Jim said quietly. Dean looked up and around and walked reluctantly to the table, pushing up his sleeves and stretching his arms over the table top toward the priest. He stared fixedly at the wounds as Jim covered them in iodine and antibiotic powder, wrapping a light gauze bandage around his arms from wrist to elbow to keep them clean.

"What happened?"

Dean shrugged. "We just wanted to play outside for a while."

"Outside – in the old storm water system, during a rainstorm?" Jim asked dryly.

"It wasn't raining –" He stopped, unable to explain to an adult's satisfaction what had driven the choices, one after the other, that had made it seem okay to him.

"You both could've died down there, you know," Jim pointed out, tying off the last bandage at his wrist and packing up the medical kit. "Sam's got a mild concussion. He'll be alright."

Dean exhaled and looked down at the table top. The bathroom door opened and Jim got up, Dean rising as well and going to his brother's bag, pulling out clean pyjamas for Sam.

John set Sam down and helped him into the pyjamas, pulling back the covers of the single bed. "You're alright to sleep now, Sammy. You look like you need it."

Dean watched Sam climb into the bed unsteadily and close his eyes as his father drew the covers up and over him. His father turned and looked at the other doorway, Jim nodding understandingly, picking up the kit and going through to the adjoining room.

Dean waited, and his father gestured to the table, sitting down in the other chair. "Whose idea was it to play down there, Dean?"

He wanted to look at his little brother, but loyalty kept his gaze pinned to his father's face.

"Mine, sir."

John's brow lifted slightly. "Really?"

"Yessir."

"You know that Sam could've died in there," his father said slowly, looking at him seriously. "If the concussion had been worse, or if the water rose too fast. You could both have died in there. It was an incredibly dumb thing to do, Dean."

Dean dropped his gaze then lifted it again, straightening slightly. "Yessir."

The silence stretched out between them for a long, long moment and Dean swallowed against the feelings that were rising in his throat. He did know, knew all those things. They'd been lucky, lucky that Jim and his father had been able to find them, lucky the two men were such good hunters.

John sighed. "You won't put your brother or yourself into a position like that again, will you?"

"No, sir!" He looked at his father in astonishment, smoothing out the expression immediately when he saw the brows draw down.

"You don't have to give Sammy everything he wants, Dean," John said very quietly, glancing across at the tousled mop of hair that was the only visible part of his youngest son. "He'll be better off if you say no, sometimes."

Dean frowned and looked away, not knowing what to say to that. He didn't give in to his brother all the time.

"You hungry?" his father asked, getting up. He looked up and nodded.

"Let's get something to eat," John said. "Sam can sleep for awhile and have his dinner later."

* * *

_The darkness was full of red eyes, and he could hear them breathing, hundreds of them, thousands of them. He twisted violently, trying to cover his brother's body with his own. He had nothing to fight them off with and they were getting closer, the faint clicking of their claws on the stone, the rank, massed smell of them filling his nostrils, making it impossible to breathe, to think –_

"Whoa, Dean, wake up," his father whispered next to his ear and he sat up abruptly, eyes wide in the darkness, staring at the corners of the room, his heart pounding, his breath whistling in his throat.

"Just a dream, buddy," John shifted on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around his son and smoothing the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. "Not real, okay?"

Dean nodded slowly, feeling his heartbeat slow down gradually. He pulled in a deep, deep breath and let it out, relieved that he could breathe again, the smell that had been lingering in his nose dissolving into the familiar and comforting scent of his father.

"You okay?" John's voice rumbled in his chest, against his ear and he closed his eyes, nodding again, leaning against the strength that had always been there, would always be there.

"You protected your brother, Dean," his father said softly, his arm curling a little tighter around his shoulders. "You kept him out of the water and kept the rats from him. You didn't do anything wrong."

"We wouldn't have been there –," Dean said, pulling away a little to look at his father's face.

"If you hadn't let Sam talk you into it," John said, smiling a little. "I know."

He pulled back a little as well, looking down at Dean's shadowed features. "It's an unfortunate fact of life that we all make bad decisions sometimes." He glanced over at Sam. "He's your weakness, in a lot of ways. But you kept him safe, in spite of the circumstances, you looked after him. That's – that's all I ask, Dean."

"You're not mad at me?"

"No," John leaned forward, running his hand over Dean's hair. "You did the best you could. We all just do the best we can, do you understand?"

He nodded, but he didn't. Not really. He'd put them in danger today and his dad was just brushing it off. He didn't understand that at all.

"Try and get some sleep, son," his father eased himself up and straightened out the tangle of covers. "Maybe dreams about cars or girls this time?"

Turning the damp pillow over, Dean closed his eyes. He could've done better, he thought, as sleep slid past his defences. Could've done better –

* * *

_**Cicero, Indiana. 2011.**_

_"What do I do if I lose everyone, Ellie? What do I do then?"_

Dean rubbed his eyes slowly, letting the memory seep out of him, dissolving in the warmth of the afternoon sun shining in through the bedroom windows. Every breath was an effort, every cell was aching with exhaustion, every nerve felt beaten and dead.

Sam was his weakness, he knew that. Had known it on some level since the moment his father had put his little brother into his arms and told him to run out of the house. There was nothing he wouldn't've done for his brother, and maybe that'd been a mistake. He couldn't blame his father for the way he'd felt. It had been in him already, that need to protect Sam, to make things better. To give him something of what he'd had as a little kid, that his brother never had.

Had he done his best? The very best he could to keep everything that had happened from happening? Had there been a time or a choice or a place that he could've done something better, been stronger?

There had been, of course.

He'd wanted things to go back to the way they'd been and they never did, never could. Everything changes, all the time, she'd said to him in the midst of his despair, and life goes on. He'd hated hearing it, hated the way he knew that was the truth. And whether he admitted it or not, whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to accept that. He couldn't go back. And even if he could, there was nothing left to go back for. His family was gone. His friends had gone. He had no one at his back and no place to go to. There was only one road forward.

Dean Winchester, ex-hunter, with no family or past, would become a normal guy, a guy who knew his neighbours, went to the Christmas parties each year, taught Ben how to fix a car and remembered Lisa's birthday, pulled out his FBI suit to wear to Lisa's niece's christening and smiled and nodded and talked to people about things he knew nothing of, and couldn't summon the interest for. He would hang out with Sid on a Friday night after work, sink a couple of beers, and maybe throw a game of pool so that his neighbour didn't feel too bad. He would earn his paycheck and pay his bills and keep the house in good order and make sure that the people under his protection would never come to harm. He would mow the lawns, rake the leaves and take the Christmas lights down before New Year's, keep the car locked away with the guns and knives and, he guessed, he'd change slowly, incrementally, into someone else.

Ellie had lied to him or changed her mind about him and either way, it didn't much matter. She wasn't coming back any more than Sam was. She hadn't come when the cage had closed, hadn't looked for him at Bobby's and he thought that she wouldn't try to find him now. He would bury his memories, and keep them from hurting him, and he would seal up his pain and make himself believe that he'd never felt, never known, never needed or wanted. He would never see her again. He was out of the life as thoroughly as if he'd died on the field in Stull. As if he'd gone down into the ground like his brother.

_"You start again. And then, again, if need be."_

Start again.

_Yeah._

After a while, he thought, he wouldn't remember and he wouldn't think about either of them, wouldn't think of the past and the friendships and the times he'd been the most alive, or the times he'd fallen into the abyss and somehow clawed his way back out. He wouldn't think of any of it and he would know then that he was normal.

"Hey, you're home early."

He turned and looked at the doorway, Lisa smiling at him as she came in. He nodded, feeling the muscles of his face stretch into an answering smile.

"Yeah, I – yeah," he said, shrugging, unable to think of a reasonable excuse for it.

"You okay?" She walked to him and sat down on the bed beside him.

"Sure, yeah." He nodded, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing her forehead. "I'm good."

"Ben wants to go bowling tonight," she said, looking up at him. "What do you think?"

* * *

**END**


End file.
